#and one singular green wig

[the-music-maniac]

I just made a stupid purchase (short green haired wig) and I'm fighting some demons that are telling me to go to an anime convention as Zoro in a maid outfit

[nordschleifes]

chapter twelve — juro que

➝ love is always the best medicine, and charlie is willing to give fernando all the doses he needs to recover.

➝ word count: 5,9k

➝ warnings: hallucinations, hospital, puppets and ron dennis (not in that order)

➝ author's note: tagging @christianpulisic10, @alonsogirlie, @he-is-the-destined, @sunnytkm23 and @enaticosencantados as requested.

The lights obscured Fernando's vision, the loud sound of people applauding making him feel dizzy as he tried to make out his surroundings. The place reminded him of a familiar television studio he had been to a few weeks earlier to promote the race in Las Vegas. What was he doing there again?

“Wait a second… Why am I in Madrid? Shouldn't I be in the United States?”, he thought.

— We're back with Fernando Alonso, two-time Formula 1 world champion and Aston Martin driver — he heard a familiar voice say. He turned his head to the right and managed to focus his vision on the face of Pablo Motos, the host of the television show he had just made an appearance on. Only this time, he had a dark green headset on his head.

He raised an eyebrow, confused. Why was he wearing one of the headphones from the Aston garage? Even more perplexing, why was he speaking in English? Fernando thought about prodding him to ask him when he had learned English in the first place, because he knew Pablo didn’t speak the language that well. As he reached out to tap Pablo on the shoulder to ask, he felt a twinge of pain in his hand, as if something had pierced the skin. 

— Fernando, the last time you were here, we already talked about the season and adapting to a new team, but we need to talk about this — Pablo said, pointing to the screen on the right side of the stage. The images projected on it made Fernando’s stomach twist. 

It was a picture of the moment he met Charlie in the Aston Martin garage after his victory in Montreal. From the moment Fernando had crossed the finish line, all he could think about was sharing it with her. After all, she was responsible for their victory that day. She’d made that joy possible. Charlie believed in him and urged him on, even when he thought he’d never be able to catch Max, and their efforts had paid off.

However, Fernando remembered how he felt at the moment in the picture. Their hug carried so much more than the joy of victory. It was that moment, when Charlie was in his arms, laughing and wiping away her tears, that Fernando realized that he loved her.

— Yeah, that’s me and my race engineer...

— You two are very good friends, aren't you? — the host asked, a mischievous smile on his face.

— Yeah, Charlie is a good friend of mine — Fernando answered, trying to ignore the feeling that he had already answered that question before. “People ask about her all the time, this is normal”, he thought to himself, squirming uncomfortably in the chair he was sitting on — She's always by my side, she's my eyes outside the car, so to speak.

— Well, I know of two… I think calling them people would be a stretch, but they’re both very interested in discussing this with you — Pablo said, before turning to the audience, giving them a very rehearsed-looking smile — Everyone, please give a round of applause for Trancas and Barrancas!

In front of him, two light purple puppets with bulging eyes and yellow teeth rose from a cut-out space of Pablo’s desk. For some reason, Fernando never realized how comical they looked, intended to be a cartoonish impression of what an ant looked like. They normally had some sort of prop or costume, but this time, Fernando was shocked when they each were wearing brown wigs with long hair and wispy bangs, with dark green headsets on their heads to match Pablo’s. One of them — Barrancas, the one with the unibrow and buck teeth — had his hair down, while the other puppet, Trancas, who had a vacant expression and a singular, off-center tooth, had his wig styled in a messy bun. 

They were dressed as Charlie.

— Good evening! Good evening! — Trancas said, turning to the audience and nodding, his pupils rattling humorously around the plastic domes that formed the puppet’s eyes. They were also speaking English, which gave Fernando even more of an uneasy feeling.

— Good evening, Fernando — Barrancas said, his bangs falling awkwardly over his monobrow.

— Good evening — he murmured, confused. Things were starting to feel distinctly odd — Why are you wearing those outfits?

— We decided to wear these things to make you more comfortable, and because it seems to be in style now — Barrancas said, shaking his head and ruffling his hair.

— And because you like Charlie…

— Shut up, Trancas — the puppet scolded, before turning to Fernando again — So, taking advantage of your being here, we decided to submit you to a test that you’ve done before, but this time, we have a bigger, better, more accurate version, to see if you remain sincere in your answers or if you are…

— Easily swayed by a pretty woman — the other puppet said, turning toward the audience as they broke out into cheers and whistles.

— What do you think, Fernando?

He didn't have time to respond before the puppets cheered and the crew came onto the stage with the equipment for the game, as loud music and applause filled the studio. Before he knew it, Fernando was strapped to the chair he’d been sitting on, with sensors strapped to his chest, arms, and legs. The one on his right leg had been cinched a bit too tight, causing his ankle to hurt.

— Are you ready? — Barrancas asked, not waiting for a response from Fernando before continuing — Let’s get started!

More applause. More of the suspenseful soundtrack in the background. More lights. More pain.

— Fernando Alonso, if that's really your name — Trancas began, his antennae and pupils shaking — Tell us, honestly and don't lie… Do you like Charlie Whitlam?

Fernando blinked. “What kind of question is that?”, he wondered.

— Yes, I do.

One of the lights that had been placed on the table came on, and the public reaction was completely negative, as well as the sound that went off in the studio.

He was lying.

— I can't believe it, Fer — someone said beside him. When he turned his face, the pilot realized that it was no longer Pablo Motos who was there, but Alberto, wearing a blue sweatshirt and his arms crossed on the table — Are you lying to the whole world straight away?

— What are you doing here, Galle?

— That doesn't matter, now answer the question.

— But…

— Mr. Fernando Alonso — Trancas said, his voice high and shrill — Do you like Charlie Whitlam?

— No? — he replied in a low voice, without any certainty.

Green light. “But how?”, the driver thought.

— Well, you don't like her — Barrancas said, ruffling his dark hair — So does that mean you love her?

Fernando swallowed hard.

That word seemed small compared to what he felt for Charlie.

After Andrea broke up with him, Fernando simply stopped thinking about trying to maintain a romantic relationship. Quite apart from the strain of a life of travel and constant and total focus on the races he needed to do, there was the whole issue related to his desire to maintain his own privacy while being around people who were clearly too delighted or scared with the fame and the spotlight to continue with the relationship.

In the end, love became a futile effort, a waste of time and energy he preferred to save for his professional life. Until Charlie sat next to him on the tires during pre-season testing.

She was an interesting enigma for Fernando. She'd had a completely different upbringing than he had, but with the same result. She had been fascinated by cars since she was a little girl and enjoyed karting as much as he did. She understood the world of Formula 1 as much as he did. Rather, she loved that world.

Falling in love with Charlie was easy. When Fernando realized it, he had a sinking heart, holding her while she had a panic attack due to the storm. He, who never minded the rain, came to dread it every time he was next to her. He couldn't bear to see Charlie shaken like that again, completely torn to pieces in front of him.

She deserved to be happy, a wide smile lighting up her expression, her eyes narrowed under the bangs that made her completely unique in his eyes. Charlie deserved it and Fernando was willing to give it to her, whether it was on the track or when they were alone in their little bubble. He would give her the whole world, even if it meant his ruin.

— Yes. I love Charlie.

The green light flickered in front of him, causing him to let out a sigh of relief. He knew he was speaking the truth, but there was a certain tension in having his own words called into question.

— Do you want to date her? — Trancas asked.

— Well, we kind of date…

Red light. Siren. Lie.

— Have you asked Charlie to be your girlfriend yet? — Barrancas questioned.

— No, but… Do I need to?

— C’mon, Fernando! — someone shouted from the audience. Turning to face forward, the driver found Lance on his feet, looking completely outraged by his answer — Of course you do! You told me that yourself, that you needed to talk to her...

— The problem is, when I thought about doing that, she just ran out of my room in her underwear…

A wave of gasps rose from the audience as a horn blared through the studio. Looking at the other people, Fernando realized that he was facing people he knew. Lewis, Flavio, Giancarlo, Jarno, as well as Raquel and Dasha, were all there, protesting his words.

— Hey, hey, hey, hold on, champ! — one of the puppets interrupted him suddenly — This is a family show, no details like that…

— But I didn’t say anything…

— Doesn't matter, we can only talk about stuff like that after ten, okay? — the ant said.

— Mr. Alonso, answer us with complete sincerity — Barrancas began — And without lying, eh? Are you willing to someday marry Charlie Whitlam?

The question made his heart sink inside his chest. He had fantasized about his wedding a few times when he was young, especially when he was engaged to Raquel. However, after his divorce, it became just another beautiful experience of life that had come to an end. Fernando had even thought about getting married again, first with Lara and then with Linda, but nothing very concrete.

Then he saw Charlie in that white jumpsuit at the boutique in Lugano, looking into his eyes through the reflection of the mirror. His mind drew the scenario almost automatically. White lace, hair up, a shy smile on her face and white English roses in her hand.

— No. I will marry her.

Green light. Truth.

— Interesting — a deep voice replied, the British accent rising. Looking to the side again, Fernando found that Alberto was no longer there, but Ron Dennis. Wearing a suit and tie, the man was smiling at him in a rather sadistic way as he stroked a very familiar orange cat — And do you think she wants to marry you?

— Yes.

Red light. Lie.

— Oops — Trancas said, laughing — I think you're wrong.

— Charlotte is an amazing woman, Fernando — Ron said, running a hand over the fur of the cat he was holding — She deserves the best there is in this world.

— I know, and I'm the best for her.

Red light. Lie. Looking at the device placed on the table, right in front of him, the driver was completely shocked.

— Even you don't believe that, Fernando — Ron said, chuckling.

— I do believe it, she is the woman of my life! — he exclaimed — I don't even know what you're doing here, you have nothing to do with it.

— Of course I do, who brought you back to McLaren in 2015? — the man asked — You would never have met Charlotte if it weren't for me. I even think you owe me a thank you.

— First, it's Charlie, she doesn't like being called Charlotte. Second, I won't thank you, those years at McLaren only hurt everyone!

Green light. True.

— I call her whatever I want, I know what's best for her.

— No, you do not know. Charlie is not a child. She knows what's best for herself. And I'm only going to believe that she wants nothing to do with me anymore when she tells me so.

Ron pressed his thin lips together.

— And while she doesn't speak?

— I'll keep imagining our lives, our wedding, even our children.

— Do you want children? — Trancas asked. Looking at the puppet, he couldn't help but smile.

— I do. And Charlie will be their mother.

There weren't any horns or lights going on. Suddenly, there was nothing else holding Fernando to the bench, not even Trancas and Barrancas in the space in the middle of the table. There was no audience, no soundtrack. There was just him and Ron Dennis, holding Charlie's cat in his lap and scratching its pointy ears.

— I think your time here is up — the man said, getting up from the bench.

— My time? — Fernando asked.

— They are waiting for you — Ron replied, placing the cat in his arms.

— They? Who are you talking about?

— Your exit is through that door — Dennis said, pointing to a corner of the studio behind him — And don't forget to give him back to his owner.

It was time for Fernando to turn his head to find the door for his former team boss to disappear. He was alone, holding the feline Ron in his arms, completely confused. Looking at the cat, the driver was in doubt for a few seconds before heading towards the door, feeling some irritating pain in his right foot.

When he opened the door, the light overshadowed his vision for a few seconds. Blinking his eyes hard and passing his free hand over his face, it took Fernando a few seconds to realize where he was. The well-wooded lane, with benches positioned just ahead of him, gave him a good lead. However, it was a man passing by wearing a familiar shirt that confirmed his suspicions.

He was in Oviedo.

Walking through the park, Fernando had no idea what to do. Should he try to go home? But if he was downtown, he would need to take a cab to Cayes, where his parents' house was. “Do I even have any money for a cab?”, he asked himself, looking for a place to stop and look for some money inside his jeans.

Then, he heard a familiar laugh.

It was a laugh he loved.

Turning back, he saw a group sitting under some shade. The older couple were holding each other, watching a little girl tell something, gesturing with her hands. Beside them, another couple with two teenage girls were listening intently to the smaller one, as was the other woman, who had a bulging belly.

It was his parents.

Lorena and Edo. Maria and Bianca.

Charlie.

— The duck said ‘quack’ and went back to the lake with the piece of banana I gave him — the little girl exclaimed — Did it like it, mamá?

— I'm sure, my dear — Charlie replied, running a hand through the girl's dark hair before she turned away. The strong chin, sweet smile and blue eyes was what he needed to be sure, eyes filling with tears.

He was looking at his daughter.

— Come on, Bia — the girl said, the wind swaying her green dress — Let's play ball!

His niece smiled as she got up and ran after her cousin, who was holding a white soccer ball. Watching the two play, Charlie rubbed her belly, probably thinking about what it would be like when their other child arrived. Walking slowly towards them, Fernando couldn't stop thinking about how lucky he was.

That was his family, his life. He had parents, a sister, a brother-in-law and two nieces that he loved unconditionally. He had a partner he was completely in love with and two kids with her. Two pieces of his own heart out of his chest, the two greatest treasures he could have in life.

— Papá! — the little girl exclaimed, with a wide smile, waving at him as she guided the ball towards him.

— Mi cielo — he replied, as he followed, the pain in his arm from holding Ron growing stronger.

— Look, papá, I know how to do just like Vini!

— Yes, mi cielo...

— Get the ball, papá — the girl said, kicking the ball hard.

As the ball hit Fernando squarely in the face, his vision went white.

Charlie was tired. Tired of crying, tired of walking the hospital corridors, tired of sitting there, staring at Fernando, completely inert, while the machine above him beeped rhythmically, indicating that his heart was still beating. It was a sign that he was still with her, just not in the way she wanted.

She, along with Luis, Edo and Alberto, were informed early on Sunday morning that Fernando's injuries were not life-threatening, and that he should make a full recovery. The news was met with sighs of relief and thanks to God in whispered Spanish. However, that didn't mean he was out of the woods, quite the contrary. In addition to the ankle fracture that required surgery to stabilize, Fernando had suffered a grade-three concussion, which meant the end of the season for him and, in a way, for Charlie as well.

— He's going to be very upset — Luis muttered, putting one hand in his pocket, something everyone there agreed on. Fernando hated missing a free practice, much less a race. Breaking the news to him would be difficult, but that was a matter to be discussed with him awake.

That is, when he woke up.

After Fernando had surgery and was transferred to a room, his doctors expected him to wake up after the anesthesia wore off, but that did not happen. A neurologist brought in for a consult examined Fernando and determined that he was experiencing an expected reaction from his body, considering that he had already had other concussions of varying grades. A neurological exam with an EEG showed that his brain activity was normal, and he was just in what was functionally a very deep sleep, but that didn't make the wait any easier.

Looking at the hands on the wall clock only made Charlie feel more anxious. The feeling of helplessness in the face of the situation was overwhelming inside her chest and there was nothing she could do but take quick naps and sip cups of coffee that seemed completely tasteless.

Luis, Edo, and Alberto offered to take turns, to allow everyone a few hours off from keeping vigil at Fernando’s bedside, but Charlie declined. Something inside her told her that she would feel better if she went to the hotel to take a shower, eat a real meal and sleep in an actual bed, but doing so would mean leaving the man she loved alone. What if he woke up and she wasn’t there? She wasn't capable of that, not when she'd made that mistake before.

He needed her and Charlie was determined to stay there as long as she had to, even if she had to fight her own body. But with the arrival of another night, she was starting to lose the fight. With her head resting against her hand and her eyes closed, she was dozing lightly, the sound of the equipment monitoring Fernando's vital signs lulling her into a light sleep.

— Charlie? — a whisper made her shift in her chair. It was definitely some sort of auditory hallucination, she thought, because of how tired she was.

However, hearing the whisper a second time, Charlie was sure someone was calling her. Opening her eyes, she found Fernando with his eyes half closed, watching her. Running a hand over her face, she couldn't believe it.

— Fer — Charlie replied, jumping to her feet, her eyes filling with tears — It's me, I'm here.

— Where am I? — he asked.

— You're in the hospital — she said, wiping a hand over the tear that had trickled down her cheek. Charlie couldn't believe he was finally awake.

— In Vegas?

— Yes, we're still in Las Vegas.

He lifted his hand slowly towards hers, which was resting on the cold bed rail. Feeling his fingers land over hers, Charlie let go of the plastic and took his hand.

— What happened? Did I crash?

— Yes. You touched Pierre at the second chicane and flipped your car on the first lap.

He looked away, trying to move his body. After confirming that the hands and arms were fine, he tried moving his feet, first the left and then the right. Realizing he couldn't move his right foot, he lifted the blanket, staring at the soft cast that immobilized part of his leg.

— You've broken your ankle, they had to do surgery — Charlie said — The accelerator pedal broke in the crash, all of the force must have gone into your foot, so they have it immobilized. Oh, and you had a concussion too, but no other serious head injuries. I mean, aside from the fact you’ve been unconscious for two days, but… 

— Two days? — he asked, looking shocked.

— Yes, two days. It's Monday evening.

He pressed his lips together, staring at the logo on her clothing. Looking down, Charlie felt a little self-conscious about wearing the same uniform since Saturday night, but it didn't matter. Nothing mattered when he was there, in front of her, alive.

— Didn't you go back to the hotel?

— No. I've been here since Saturday night. I arrived a little after you, actually.

— Charlie...

— I couldn't go back, Fer — she whispered, her thumb stroking his skin — I couldn't leave you here alone.

— But what about Alberto? And Edo, and Luis? Did they go home?

— No, the three of them are at the hotel, waiting for you to wake up to come see you. They’ve been in and out, they all left a little while ago…

Fernando was silent for a few seconds, his eyes fixed on their intertwined hands.

— Why did you stay?

— Because you needed me...

— Charlie — he said, cutting her off — Tell me the truth.

— But — she stammered, her heart pounding in her chest.

— I opened my heart to you and you ran away from me — Fernando snapped, dryly — Now you're here, by my side, holding my hand...

— Do you want me to let go of your hand?

— I want you to be honest with me.

Charlie felt a lump rise in her throat. Why did it have to be so difficult?

— Fer...

He looked up at her seriously.

— If, after everything we've been through together, you can't tell me how you feel, I think you better let go of my hand and leave.

— I wouldn't go even if you wanted me to.

— Yes, you would.

— Of course not — Charlie snapped.

— Why not? You did before…

— Because I love you! — she exclaimed. The volume of her voice made Fernando flinch, before Charlie remembered what the doctor had said about concussions causing visual and auditory sensitivity. Then she continued in a lower voice — I love you, Fer.

Fernando stared at her, seeming to process the words.

— I just didn't tell you before because I — Charlie hesitated for a few seconds — I was scared. I thought what we had was something casual, but I only told myself that because I was so afraid of how deep my feelings for you had gotten, and when you told me you loved me, I panicked. You had finally given the right name to the crushing feeling I feel in my chest every time I'm with you. It is not joy, it is not peace, it is not passion. It's love. It's simply love. And even still, it scares me.

Looking down at their hands, more tears filled her eyes.

— Does love scare you? — he asked.

— My love for you scares me. In fact, all the feelings you can provoke in me scare me. You've already made me feel so much that I didn't allow myself before — she stopped for a few seconds — My life is intertwined with yours in a way that I can't explain. And it's this lack of an explanation for my logical brain that makes it all scary.

— Love doesn't have to be logical — Fernando murmured.

— I found that out sitting in that armchair, waiting for you to wake up. It makes no sense for me to love someone I hated so deeply, but at the same time, it makes the most complete sense when you are the person who understands me, even though I am the mess of a person I am. What I feel for you is love. It has no logic or limit. And I just hope you accept mine the same way I accept yours.

He let go of her hand suddenly, which made Charlie's stomach sink. After some silence, she decided that was her last shot with him.

— I don’t know if you remember but in Montreal, in 2015, I ran out of the motorhome after the debrief and hid between the paddock buildings to cry — she whispered — I was mad at you, so mad. And Lewis just happened to find me there, sobbing. We talked about what happened and he gave me some valuable advice that day.

— What did he say? 

— He told me not to let you into my head — she replied, seeing his pursed lips — But today, I realized he didn't say anything about my heart. And you entered mine.

Fernando gave a small smile.

— He's an asshole.

— He said the same about you.

— Oh, he did? Good to know…

The two looked at each other for a few seconds in silence.

— Well… — Charlie said.

— What?

— It’s just as simple as that, I suppose, that I love you, and that I hope you still love me, too — she whispered.

— I never stopped loving you, Charlotte — Fernando replied, placing his hand on her face — Not even for a second. And you don't have to be afraid of anything. I will take care of your heart with all the love it deserves.

With her chest filling with warm sensation, Charlie leaned over the bed rail, placing a soft, tear-tasting kiss on his lips. The relief of having him alive and well mingled with the happiness of loving and being loved despite being far from perfect. She was finally safe.

After a few more delicate kisses and Fernando asking other questions about the race, Charlie took it upon herself to call the doctor who was taking care of him to take a look at him. Then, she called Edo, letting him know that his brother-in-law was conscious and oriented, news that he received with great joy.

— I'll let everyone around here know he's awake — he said — His mother will be so relieved, Lore told me she wasn't sleeping well with worry.

— I can imagine — Charlie replied, watching Fernando as a nurse took his blood pressure.

— Do you want to go back to the hotel? I can come over and sit with Fer so you can rest.

Charlie bit her lip. She was completely exhausted, but she didn't want to leave Fernando behind. It wasn't as if he wasn't getting the best treatment, much less that he was incapacitated in any way, but she took it as an obligation. However, the last thing Charlie wanted was to suffocate Fernando, even more so in this situation.

— I'll talk to him and let you know, okay?

— Yeah, no problem — he said — Give him a hug from me and tell him I'll see him tomorrow morning at the latest.

After hanging up the phone, Charlie approached the bed again. Looking at her, Fernando had a small smile on his lips.

— Edo?

— Yeah. He said he's coming to see you tomorrow morning.

— Is he coming with you when you come back?

She blinked.

— Well, I thought I'd stay here one more night.

— Why?

— So I can take care of you.

The driver laughed.

— Charlie, I'm in a hospital. There's no shortage of people here to take care of me.

— But they're not me.

— True, they aren’t, but — he said, bringing a hand to her face — But it's no use trying to take care of me if you're not taking care of yourself.

— I'm fine — Charlie snapped — I can stay awake a lot longer. In fact, I had many nights like this in university.

— You were 20 years old then, you could get away with it — Fernando said, his thumb stroking her cheek — Now, you need to listen to your body and rest. I’ll be fine, I promise.

His concern made something warm inside her chest. "Love, this is love", Charlie thought to herself, smiling.

— Okay, I'm going to the hotel — she relented — But I'll be back tomorrow morning, very early, okay, my love?

Fernando smiled.

— Perfect, mi amor.

After a few goodbye kisses and a good-natured joke about how handsome he looked with a fuller beard, Charlie finally left his room, making her way to the hospital lobby practically floating. It was as if she were in a romance book, in which the protagonists were finally living their “happily ever after”.

Well, until she looked outside the hospital.

In front of the building, what seemed to be more than a dozen cameras were pointed at the entrance door, along with a good number of journalists and photographers. It was clear that there would be people there, waiting for anyone who could give more information about Fernando. And, considering she was in the team uniform, she was the perfect person for it.

— Miss, do you need help? — a man wearing a white coat and surgical scrubs asked. She explained the situation, and the man took her to an exit leading to the staff parking lot, which was free of reporters. 

“An angel”, Charlie thought, as she made her way back to The Signature in an Uber, ducking slightly so reporters wouldn't see her leaving the building. The entire drive there was a big blur, as was the arrival at the suite. After taking a shower and calling in-room dining service to order something to eat, she allowed herself a moment of contemplation, looking up at the ceiling.

Fernando was fine, he was alive. And most of all, he still loved her. He had never stopped loving her, not for a second, not even when she feared her own feelings for him. And being loved by that man was a sublime feeling, better than anything Charlie had ever felt in her life.

There was so much more than just sexual chemistry between the two, but something much stronger and deeper. What they had was something that even the word she was most afraid to use to describe it — love — seemed inadequate. Fernando didn't complete her, because Charlie was sure she was a complete person without him, but he complemented her. He brought out the best in her and that was...

— Fuck, Charlie — she muttered to herself, wiping the tears that had trickled from her eyes. However, unlike the last few days, these were tears of joy.

She was happy.

Finally happy.

The next morning, Charlie was back at the hospital, feeling much better than she had the day before. “He was right”, she thought, as she walked past the reporters in silence, lowering her Brighton cap a bit. After checking in at the reception desk and getting a visitor’s badge, she went up to Fernando's room, wondering if he’d gotten some more sleep, if he was awake, if he’d been able to eat, and if he was in any pain.

Knocking softly on the door of room 249, the answer came in his expression, which looked much more rested. Not only that, he looked happy.

— Good morning, everyone — Charlie said, greeting Edo, Luis and Alberto who had arrived there earlier, before approaching the bed slowly — Good morning, Fer.

— Good morning, nena — he replied, stretching out his hand toward her — Did you get some rest?

— Yes — she said, giving his hand a light squeeze before releasing it. The reaction made the driver raise an eyebrow at her — What?

— Aren’t you forgetting something?

She looked down at herself, trying to imagine what she could have left at the hotel that she hadn't noticed, but Fernando had.

— No, I have everything here.

— What about my kiss? — he asked, giving her the puppy-eyed look that made her give in to his every request, even the most absurd of them.

— Fer — Charlie said through clenched teeth, feeling her cheeks heat up.

— Come on, it's not like they don't know we've been together for over six months — Fernando said, looking at the three men beside him.

— You haven’t exactly been discreet — Alberto said, crossing his arms, with Luis nodding beside him.

— Especially with the hickeys — Edo added, smirking — You've already done quite a bit of damage to his neck, Charlie.

Charlie felt a little embarrassed about that. As much as she wanted to be discreet, it was hard not to want to kiss and bite the skin on Fernando's neck. When she saw it, there was already a purple mark nestled in the space between the muscle and his collarbone. Luckily they were always hidden under the green shirts and racing overalls.

— So where's my kiss?

— It's here — Charlie relented, giving him a delicate peck — How was your night?

— Good. I ate, slept, and talked to the doctor. He updated me on everything that happened to me and recovery times. He said that the average is eight weeks, but I think Edo and I will be able to reduce it to six.

— Fernando, you can't control the speed at which your bones heal — she said seriously.

— But I can and will help them along. Edo and I will talk to Lore tomorrow, when I'm home, to see what supplementation I can take...

— Home? Are you going to be discharged?

— Yes, the doctor said he's releasing me tonight — Fernando replied.

— And are you going to Lugano?

— No, Oviedo. My mother is going to break my other ankle if I don't go home for a bit after this one. Besides, it'll be nice to be around my family for a few weeks, I haven't seen them all together since Barcelona, so...

Charlie smiled, running an affectionate hand through his hair.

— Love is always the best medicine, my grandmother always says — she said, giving him a kiss on the forehead.

— So can I get the jet ready for the five of us, Fer? — Alberto asked.

— Five? — Charlie asked, looking at him and then at Fernando.

— Yes. We’re all going to Oviedo — the driver replied, stroking her hand.

— But, am I going with you?

— Of course, Charlie — he said, before he saw the doubt in her eyes — Well, if you want to.

She pressed her lips together, feeling a little confused. Although she wanted to stay with Fernando and support him through his recovery, Charlie felt like she was going too fast and too far. Being at his house was one thing, but being with his family was something else entirely. It was like taking a step bigger than her leg.

— It's like your grandmother says, love is the best medicine — Fernando said, bringing her hand to his lips and kissing the fingers, eyes fixed on her — And I'm going to need some doses of yours, mi cielo.

“How am I supposed to say no?”, she thought to herself.

— Okay, my love. I'll go with you.

[writer59january13]

A psalm to solemnize pure tin forefathers/mothers...

Who didst unknowingly, unquestionably,

and unwittingly script vitality

and the prologue to Thanksgiving, (which theme poem initially written) about three hundred and ninety seven years,

and nine months after February third 1621, yet genesis of American November tradition

pronouncing Meleagris gallopavo domestico

sacrificial bird spurred them to revolt enmasse.

Wise no adulation, dedication and gratification

not emphasized the other three hundred

and sixty four days a year

question their role as consumed

end product of taxidermist,

gnome hatter clucks fie against industry where

when thanksgiving gobbledygook brouhaha

glib lets deified whereat

a countless range of turkeys sacrificed veer

rill lee with commendable,

gratuitous and laudatory plaudits

bequeathed to the cook,

who held as the grand umpire

calling bastes time to bring in the pitcher -

though such an action tends

tubby viewed as fowl, with tail feathers there

be fluttering in sync with shutterfly flapping

at least one angry bird

sent to the slaughterhouse -

whose peck within four square

foot locker enclosure

breeds base sill wrath bone,

which Birdseye view dispensed,

though tis grim fate

doth behoove turkeys to rear

up and protest their predestination

forbidding grim intuition

via special Turkish communication

from axe of cruelty,

the butcher will not deem queer

yet questions pop up why

this singular twenty four hour

Fitbit of time fosters the people

to summon beneficence,

and when whatsapp did appear rent lee clinched this American custom

squawks back hundreds of years

sans "The First Thanksgiving,"

a spontaneous oscillometer ocular venerated, feted,

and celebrated requisitioned,

when Governor William Bradford

organized a three-day long feast near the tip of Cape Cod,

which was too far north

of intended destination.

One month later,

they made maximum headway

to Massachusetts Bay

celebrated Native Americans friends,

the year 1621 feasted

between Pilgrims and Wampanoag

at Plymouth Colony a green day (know your enemy unsung) arbitrarily chose spread of turkey,

waterfowl, venison, fish, lobster,

clams, berries, fruit, pumpkin,

and squash mebbe fish fillet Thanksgiving, currently celebrated

on the fourth Thursday

in November by federal legislation

in 1941 recalling hooray, or more particularly regaling

the maiden voyage 1620

viz a ship called the Mayflower

ambitiously disembarking stalked

by death and injury from Plymouth, England

for the New World

after a difficult battle at sea

that lasted 66 days;

the 102 passengers roped a deejay, which essentially doubled up as conductor,

and struck up psalm songs

for a guiding buoyant gull

they named Oak Kay of the Mayflower landed near

and the Pilgrims began

to build a new home at Plymouth,

whence an annual tradition hay begat by founding fathers and Mother Nature

incorporating some marketing spin,

thence United States

by presidential proclamation and fiat Gerry rigged obeisance (essentially honoring

those brave hearts

that dared traverse

the Atlantic Ocean

without life jackets nor a whit,

they didst courageously ferry themselves in a rickety craft

(where many perished at sea)

since 1863, and state legislation

since Founding Fathers donned gray powdered wigs (served

to trumpet political stance)

forging fledgling colonies

slated crude establishments and primitive bidet wrought forth from deep

within the bowels

of fecund fields broke ranks with Britain,

and pioneered United States array.

[amateurwordbender]

Lover & Loner

“I’m not going.”

“Johanna,” Blight says with a mixture of exasperation and I’m-going-to-murder-you written on his face. Johanna’s grown very accustomed to that face; it was with her every step of the way on her Victory Tour. “You can’t skip this party. It’s—”

“Why the hell not?” Johanna cuts in before her former mentor can launch into some lecture about how this is the unofficial opener for the Games season, how everyone who’s anyone in the Capitol will be there, blah blah fucking blah. “It’s not like I’m mentoring. I don’t need to meet sponsors or try and squeeze secrets out of the Gamemakers.”

“Sure, but people aren’t just going to let it slide if the winner of the last Games doesn’t show up. There are going to be socialites who want to meet you for the first time, reporters who want your opinions on this year’s tributes—”

“All the more reason not to go—”

“and,” Blight continues loudly, “the Capitol needs to keep all of them happy.”

That stops her protests in her throat. Johanna crosses her arms, but she hears what Blight isn’t saying. Snow and his lackeys won’t tolerate it looking like they can’t control one of their precious victors.

She hates them all so much that it stains the edges of her vision red. Sometimes, she wishes she didn’t have a sense of self-preservation and could just tell the esteemed president himself to fuck off straight to his face, maybe shoving a spear so far up his ass that he can’t move without slicing his balls for good measure. But you don’t make it out of the Games alive without a deep-seated survival instinct, so she swallows her bitterness and goes down to meet with her stylist.

Another scratchy wig, another gaudy dress, and she’s off to the gala, wading through a smog of perfumes and flummery. Johanna tries to stick it out; she really does, but after one too many hands on her skin and compliments from people who made bets on her life, she gives her micromanager—sorry, escort—the slip and starts looking for an escape route. 

The main entrance is out of the question; Blight or Gabinia, who has been frantically searching for Johanna since she disappeared into the crowd, would spot her right away. There are a few other doors accessible from this floor, but there are guards posted by every single one of them, and they give her suspicious looks whenever she approaches. She heads upstairs instead.

It’s quieter on the second level, but that doesn’t necessarily make it an improvement. Here, the air is just as thick, if only with scheming rather than schmoozing. This must be where those deals that can mean life or death for the tributes who haven’t even arrived in the Capitol are made. Johanna recognizes a few faces that pass her by—there’s one of the victors from Two, and yep, that’s the Gamemaker with an atrociously green mustache who scored her last year. She beelines for fluttering curtains that indicate a balcony. 

It opens out to a view that is probably fucking magnificent, but she looks down over the railing instead to gauge her chances of making it to the ground. The stone walls are polished so flat that there aren’t enough grooves to serve as footholds. And she’s just high up enough that she wouldn’t be able to jump without breaking something, and she’s not that desperate. Yet.

Johanna leans back, tapping her newly manicured nails against her thigh. At least she’s alone out here, and at least she can breathe without it feeling like her lungs are filling with—

“Miss Johanna Mason,” a smooth voice calls from the balcony entrance. 

Johanna doesn’t bother hiding her scowl. She knows that voice. Every person in Panem knows that voice. And while Johanna never had many friends, she did go to school, and she does remember that year Finnick Odair was reaped and became the singular topic of conversation among every girl and half of the boys in the halls.

“Shouldn’t you be off seducing some neglected Capitol housewife?”

“I see my reputation precedes me,” is Finnick Odair’s only answer. He slides up beside her, slinging an arm carelessly over the railing. “As does yours. Quite the impressive victory, by the way. Such… strategic prowess.” Johanna glances over at him.  He’s holding a champagne flute, and he twirls it between two fingers without spilling a drop. “I’d be careful, if I were you. They watch the smart ones very closely around here.”

She glares into his easy smile. She should just up and leave, but this is her spot. “That supposed to be some kind of threat?”

Finnick blinks innocently. “Threat? Me? Heavens, no.” He’s adopted a pitch that reminds her of Gabinia, and it nearly coaxes a smile out of her before she remembers how goddamn irritated she is. “Miss Mason, I’m the least threatening person you could meet. Harmless, really.” There’s something sharp in the angle of his mouth, and Johanna scoffs. As if a victor could be anything resembling harmless. 

But as she watches him take a lazy sip of his drink, she realizes there’s a bit of truth to his words. Everyone here seems to have completely bought into his charm. They see the sculpted arms, the chiseled jaw, and have somehow entirely forgotten how those arms snared helpless children in nets before plunging a trident into their hearts, how blood splattered that jaw as it twisted in grim triumph. 

Then again, it’s not as if the Capitolites have anything to fear. Their victors are beasts, but the ones like Finnick Odair have been thoroughly tamed.

If she gave a rat’s ass about etiquette, it would probably be Johanna’s turn to say something, but she finally gives the view the time of day instead. The city sparkles beneath them, the lights too bright and clustered together in a way that feels claustrophobic. God. There’s really no reason why she has to be here right now. She could be back in Seven, lounging high up in the branches and watching the stars above rather than the vapid people below.

“So,” Finnick continues almost right away, undeterred by her silence. “What are you doing all on your own?”

She sighs. Stupid Snow. Stupid rules requiring victors to return every year. “What do you think?”

Finnick hums. “Well... you wanna get out of here?”

“Oh my god,” Johanna mutters.

“I’m serious.”

“I’m surprised you’re capable of it,” she shoots back. “Even if I wanted to go anywhere with you, there are guards at every door. I checked.”

Finnick grins at her, all teeth. “Oh, darling, that’s not an issue.” He drains the rest of his glass, then practically twirls around. “Come on.”

Against her better judgment, she follows. 

Almost as soon as they get downstairs, they walk right into Blight’s line of sight, and Johanna ducks reflexively behind Finnick’s frame. He raises an amused eyebrow at her, but blocks her obligingly all the same, and they reach the nearest exit without any trouble. Finnick steps forward as the guard standing by lifts a gloved hand.

“Sorry, this area’s off-limits.”

“The gardens?” Finnick tilts his head. “I know Ms. Dillia quite well, you know. I doubt she’d mind us simply taking a stroll.”

It takes a minute for Johanna to place the name as the host of the gala, and she quickly hides her disgust before it can show on her face. Finnick’s not much older than her, and that woman has to be well into her fifties. Likely older, given the cosmetic norms around here.

When the guard doesn’t budge, Finnick leans in and drops his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “Sir, please. We’re not trying to ruffle any feathers here—or disturb any plants.” The guard’s mouth twitches. “You know the folks from Seven. Spend all their days holed up in the woods and far from any civilized company. She just needs a little air.” 

Johanna does her best to look dizzy and overwhelmed. It isn’t hard. It takes Finnick trailing a hand up the guard’s arm, but eventually, he gives in and lets them through.

“Not bad,” Johanna says once they’re out of earshot. 

“You’ll learn how to deal with them soon enough.”

She manages to bite back a comment about how it must be easy when he is one of them. “Thanks,” she begrudges instead. They reach a pitiful fence at the edge of the grounds, and she hikes up her dress to climb over. "Anyway, see you."

“Oh, at least let me walk you back. There are creeps all over the city at this time of night.”

Johanna rolls her eyes. They both know she’s hardly defenseless. “Fine.”

She doesn’t bother trying to make small talk on their way to the City Circle, but Finnick doesn’t seem to mind and chatters enough for the both of them while they walk, pointing out this building or that like the perfect little tour guide. Johanna tunes him out until they get to the entrance of the Victors’ Tower, and damn, he’s still blabbering on. She frowns.

“Why did you help me?”

Finnick doesn’t show a sign of being fazed by the interruption. He shrugs. “Dunno. Guess I got bored.”

“Do you want to come up then?” The offer slips out before she can think better of it.

“Sorry, I would, but I’ve actually got a date I need to get back to,” he says, just shy of sheepish.

Oh. She hadn’t meant it like that, but that’s on her for forgetting who she was talking to. She spares a moment of pity for the woman who bored Finnick so much that he decided to walk Johanna back to her quarters. “Suit yourself.”

“See you around, Jo.” He gives her a wink that would probably make anyone else swoon but honestly looks dorky as fuck to her, then heads back towards the party.

Johanna figures that’s the end of her stint with Finnick Odair, at least until the next Games. After all, she doesn’t plan to leave her apartment much while she’s forced to be here. But for some reason, almost every time she does, she finds his infuriatingly cheerful self at her side, cracking a joke or dishing rumors about victors and Capitolites alike. 

She mostly puts up with him because he clears the very low bar of being more fun than Blight, so it’s a surprise when before long, he really is joining her on Seven’s floor. The other victors probably think they’re sleeping together, but his visits never go past sampling Capitol snacks together or exchanging stories about home. Johanna can’t blame the assumptions—this isn’t at all what she would’ve expected either, and she starts realizing pretty fast that there’s a distinct difference between how Finnick acts in public and in private.

Which, well, duh. But it goes beyond putting on a face for his adoring fans. At first glance, Finnick’s sense of humor consists entirely of innuendo and flattery, but Johanna soon learns of a cynicism that is far more bearable. Plus, he’s supposed to be some sex-crazed playboy. It’s possible that she only sees less of it because they never spend a night together, but it’s almost like that part of his personality is fully switched off as soon as they’re in the Victors’ Tower. 

The more time she spends with him, the more the layers peel away, to the point where Public Finnick and Tower Finnick seem like two completely different people after a while. Honestly, he plays the Capitol puppet even better than the patsies from One. She doesn’t know how he stands it. Johanna’s a good actor, too—it was literally how she won, but she hated every moment of playing the whimpering coward, and it was a relief to show her true colors—doesn’t Finnick ever get fucking tired?

She’s never been one to choose her words carefully, so she asks him about it straight up while they’re taking a walk through the nearby arboretum one day. Finnick just turns to her with a smirk.

“I’ve been at this game a lot longer than you, sweetheart.” He offers her a plucked flower, which she slaps out of his hand.

“Call me that again and you’ll find an axe buried in your chest,” she purrs, mimicking his smile.

“Ooh.” Finnick shudders in a mocking way that really makes her fingers itch for a handle. “Noted. I wouldn’t want to know what it’s like being on your bad side.”

“As long as you don’t try and make me your next plaything,” she says without any real malice. But Finnick's step falters, and a shadow crosses his face, and something in her chest twinges in regret. Which makes no damn sense. The gibe was harsh, but she’s always harsh, and she didn’t really say anything wrong; Finnick is very publicly the Capitol slut—though the actual citizens of the Capitol might frame it in airier terms, like eligible bachelor or lover. She’s even seen him acknowledge it with a gracious laugh and blushing change of subject in state-sponsored interviews. 

“Wouldn’t dare,” he says after a beat, and maybe she imagined the weight in his eyes, because his smile is as clear and unbothered as always when she glances again.

   It isn’t until days later, when the Games are nearly over, that she finally understands the truth behind that look.

Snow summons her personally to tell her what she needs to do, and Johanna is so stunned that she doesn’t have time to protest before he’s showing her live footage of her family, of her one brainless friend who refused to be driven away, of Mom and Dad and Jordan and Theo, and it’s impossible to say no. 

It makes sense, she thinks bitterly to herself as her stylist paints her into a concubine for the evening. It makes so much sense that victors are routinely sold to the highest bidder or given away for political favors, because they’re all slaves from the moment their names are drawn. It makes perfect sense, and yet her palms are still sweaty and her legs are still numb all the way to the manor of her companion for the night, and she’s clammy with dread in a way that she never was in the arena. 

At least in there, she could do something. Trapped in her buyer’s dark bedroom, there’s nowhere to run. With his hand too low on her back and pushing her to the mattress, there’s no one to fight.

She’s ready—well, she isn’t, but she’s willing to shove down her pride, to endure the thread of horror barely stitching her breaths together, to cooperate if it means the people that she loves will be safe. 

But it seems the man she’s been sold to isn’t satisfied with mere cooperation. He wants a struggle—and fuck, this makes sense too, since he picked her—and when he hits her and sneers, grabbing a fistful of her god-awful dress, that thread in her chest snaps, her mind goes blank, and she doesn’t realize what she’s doing until it’s too late and the man’s blood is dripping from her hands. His body lies motionless at her feet, drenching the carpet in red, still warm. Johanna is cold.

Mom. Dad. Jordan. Theo.

She collapses beside the corpse.

 —————

also on ao3 (where future chapters will be posted! please heed the warnings there—nothing is going to be worse than what is in canon, but future chapters may explore darker themes in more detail)

[randomgamefan]

I think I’ve thought of a different but still fitting gimmick for Scrybe Luke (I like how once you made the AU with Luke being put inside the game that was the first thing ppl thought of). Because he’s a YouTuber, maybe the cost of his cards could be clout (or called glory, depending on the vibe), gotten from doing exciting stunts or Big W’s like those you tubers would do to garner views, reflected in gameplay as getting one glory token for every point of damage your card does to an enemy card exceeding that card’s remaining health -like overkill damage but to a singular card- (it could alternatively be 1D4 tokens if the card gets any amount of card v card overkill damage), and also on the other end of the spectrum, when one of your cards receives a Major L and gets card v card overkill damage dealt to it (because every narrative loves an underdog comeback, though on this side the flat rate may be receiving only one token for any amount of damage of overkill your card receives, so cards summoned by glory tokens won’t get horribly overpowered once the enemy summons a bear, also you don’t get tokens for sacrificing cards)

Also a big but hard thing to consider is how Luke’s vibe is changed by becoming a scrybe, and what his New Vibe and his area is like, which I think would be a dark, shady sort of casino (not completely abandoning the luck theme), there’re sounds of patrons shuffling around gambling chips and moving their feet across the carpet from somewhere behind you, when you turn there’s no one there. You’re bent over a poker table, the walls on its sides look to be something like mahogany, the inside of it that a bright light shines down on where you’ve put down your cards is green (like a green screen, it’s a twist that boss fights put special effects over it) you see the hands of the table’s dealer hanging over those walls, if you look up you can see him standing tall on the other side of it. You can see glimpses of the edges of his silhouette and the grin on his face, but through the shadows you can’t quite make out his eyes. To whatever you throw at him, he may pause to think, he may even frown, but he’ll never waver and there isn’t quite anything that could put a damper on his confidence. Whenever your card puts on a display of dominance in dealing extra damage to an enemy, what you assume are the hands of the other patrons (you know how Luke likes to think there are viewers watching him, even when he knows they can’t here) put gambling chips on your side of the table (those are the glory tokens, maybe sometimes you can hear them chuckle distantly at the show, or that may be just a laugh track. “Behind door one you’ll merge two cards,” maybe you’ll find the mycologists there, maybe not, “door two; you’ll find card buffs. Door three; cut one out an be rewarded,” though every one will give a gauntlet of challenges and opportunities to gain new cards alike. For mini bosses he announces that a renowned card player has areived on the scene challenging you, and for the crowd to place their bets. (His minibosses tend to be modeled after other card youtubers, some he may have met and collaborated with, some that he only hoped to. Of course they aren’t exact copies of those people, that would be a little painful to deal with, but generally those types of personas are there. Since in Leshy and Po3’s own acts there weren’t other characters that come up to the table as much as the scrybe takes on the personas of those minibosses, that’s what Luke does too, he’ll pick up a hat from under the table -at least once theres a wig involved, dramatically puts it on -it looks cooler and more graceful than it sounds in the shadows, I swear- and plays up the part like an actor)

This may warrant a long post tag, srry about that, all the asks on this subject tend to run so long this subject might warrant its own tag (if you haven’t established one already- I’m on mobile so I can’t check) but still this discussion is Very Cool and I love it

Holy HECK this is a lot to unpack, I'm thrilled though! I know this is hella late but I've got the time to break this all down now so let's go! (Also I don't believe I have a tag, but all prev posts will be edited with the tag #Scrybe Luke!)

I think glory is a good name for it, and while the idea for gaining it you presented is neat, I imagine this would be difficult in competitive play and work mostly as a gimmick deck in that sense because you'd need to play it with cards that wouldn't be glory cards, as well as the fact that the diffrent decks tend to have more/less damage, making that sort of thing very difficult to balance! (I believe the idea is hella cool but I am a card game nerd and I wanna make things REALISTIC DAMNIT- /lh I wanna play glory cards...)

Tossing out ideas here, so everyone on the Scrybe Luke train feel free to hop in, but perhaps glory cards could work more like they get buffs for other glory cards being on the field, simmilar to how YouTube collabs tend to send views skyrocketing. Many of the cards have a weak base health/power, but the more you have on the field, the stronger everything gets. simmilar to ants, but ants suck so... Better.

Another idea to toss into the ring would be the ability to play certain cards based on how many cards your opponent has in play! Half the platform steals ideas from each other, so being able to play stronger cards simply because your opponent has two in play would probably play along to the theming very well!

Overall I love the ideas presented but I feel like they could be super unbalanced, especially due to playing against other decks would likely require you to change your strategy every time, which I feel like could be difficult!

Okayokay since I've now talked about the practical side, I have an excuse to talk about the aesthetics AT LENGTH. THIS IS SO COOL.

I LOVE the idea of an abandoned casino. The green screen, the whispering voices, the WHOLE idea of making Luke as ominous as possible. This dude gives into his theatre side and goes FULL THEATRICS on us and I couldn't ask for more. THIS IS SO COOL I CANNOT STRESS THAT ENOUGH!!!

I am sitting here re-reading it to try and express how cool it is but I am just

Such an AESTHETIC for my favorite boy!!!!!!! Lookit him go!!!!!

The mix of gameshow and poker elements showing off his Luck theme, there are definitely four leaf clover designs on the table and his cards, ohhg..

He likley only reveals what he truly looks like for the final boss, but I LOVE the idea that he's cloaked almost exclusively in shadow beforehand!! It keeps the challenger vibe as well as the scrybe vibe, and the final reveal would be so VIBRANT!

I think he deserves a really cool suit with green tones and four leaf Clovers. Like. Ogh.

I am DYING for this aesthetic I could rant about it for hours!!!!!!!!!

I also feel like he is probably the type to let the player play a luck based game, such as a wheel or other game show item, that could either advantage or disadvantage the player. It's like, instead of items, they can spin the wheel and could loose a card from their deck, get to draw two cards in one turn, skip a turn, kill one of Luke's monsters, ect. This would work like an item, likely - you have to collect it but you can use it at any time - and overall just!! He's ominous!!

I have realized I have been ranting for far too long but!!!!!! Please!! I need this aesthetic and this design for Luke and!!!!! AaaAA!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

If you ever have more ideas ever please drop them in my askbox I am so excited omggg

Also expect a drawing of this because I don't think I would let myself live if I didn't

[hankwritten]

Immaterial Witness

Demoman/Soldier, 5k

Request for r2mich2, Ghosthunting

Demo was less than thrilled about being selected for mandatory company ghost-busting work. His enthusiasm dropped even lower when he saw who’d be accompanying him.

“You!” he exclaimed.

“You!” Soldier replied. “Except with a different inflection! To indicate I am also not happy to see you!”

“Bloody hell,” Demo groaned as the looked at the man before him. “Jesus of all the BLU’s she could have picked for a ‘cross team eradication venture’, and she went with you.”

“I didn’t agree to this either, maggot,” Soldier assured him. “I am under orders not to strangle any REDs until this mission is complete, but my tractability will be put to the test if said RED is such a weakling and liar.”

“For the last time, I never called you a-”

“And what about all the things you did say, you son of a bitch?”

Demo scowled, not looking forward to going through the same recycled arguments over again. She had some nerve putting the two of them together after what she’d put them through; complete and total destruction of a friendship, and for what? Just to decide TF Industries was going to be managing both teams a few months later? It was a load of crap if Demo ever heard it.

“What are you even wearing?” he scoffed at Soldier’s new uniform.

“This is regulation specter pummeling gear, you sissified maggot scum!” Soldier puffed up proudly. Gone was the red jacket and fatigues, instead superseded by a singular beige jumpsuit.

“And what’s that?” Demo pointed to the canister vacuum strapped to his back. No bells, no whistles, just a regular old vacuum with a flexible nozzle.

“Ghost sucker,” Soldier said plainly.

“Right. Obviously.”

“Well what did you bring RED?” Soldier accused. “These ghosts are going lift you up by your frilly little underthings and fling you right out the door if you do not have anything to protect yourself from their disembodied maliciousness!”

“I,” Demo said, flexing his fist, “have this.”

Engineer had built it with such efficiency, Demo was sure he’d made the blueprints years ago and was just waiting for someone to ask for a ghost-capturing device. The device’s visual design was similar to that of the gunslinger, but instead of a limb replacement, it functioned more like power armor, cradling the outside of the wearer’s hand and increasing their grip tenfold.

“This ‘lil beauty has everything,” Demo continued haughtily. “EKG readings, built in spooktralizer, and-” He pulled back his fingers, activating the now-glowing disk in the center of his palm. “Anti-gravity net. No spirit’s going to escape this vortex, which is a good thing because you can’t suck up a ghost with a vacuum cleaner.”

“Shows how much you know, buster,” Soldier said. “All those doodads won’t do jack when you are staring into the blood-red eyes of a flesh-hungry phantom—these are creatures of the other side! Of the great beyond! They do not care about technology.”

“Oh aye?” Despite himself, Demo got right into Soldier’s face. “We’ll se about that when my power glove’s saving your sorry arse from having spectral boot shoved up it.”

“I will take that bet, princess,” Soldier spat back.

“Uuhhhhhhhhhhgggggggggg,” a new voice cut into the conversation. “If I have to sit through another one of your lover’s spats I’m going to kill myself. Again.”

Soldier’s eyes narrowed, fixating on something over Demo’s shoulder. “Oh great. The sword is here.”

“Yes! The sword is here!” the Eyelander chirped sarcastically. “And since I’m bloody gracing you with my company, you can do me a favor and get on with this thing. We’ve been standing out here for ten minutes.”

“It’s right,” Demo admitted as Soldier continued to stare daggers at the weapon strapped to his back. “Let’s head in.”

Demo didn’t wait to see if Soldier followed him as he took his first creaking step onto the house’s porch; by company orders, they were stuck together for now, no matter how much bad blood ran between them.

“So why are we clearing this place of ghosts anyway?” Eyelander asked as Demo pushed in the front door. The doubles groaned with an appropriate level of eeriness.

“The Voice’s orders,” he shrugged. “She wants this for a new battleground, but she wants it ghost free. Apparently there’ve been too many complaints about the past few Halloweens for her liking.”

“Really?” Eyelander said aghast. “Who doesn’t like Halloween?”

“Eh. Some of the mercs think it’s too random. Chaotic, hard to focus on what’s going on. They don’t like all the candy packs and the fact that idiot in a robe shows up and turns a ten minute match into a thirty minute nightmare.” At the last, he eyed Soldier over his shoulder.

“Do not look at me!” Soldier barked. “That isn’t my fault!”

“Yes it is! Last time he even said ‘SOLDIER THIS IS YOUR FAULT!’ as he was dropping bombs on our heads!”

“Well I am not the only causer-of-halloween-related-problems in this company,” Soldier said, jogging to get ahead of Demo to block his path. “The giant floating eyeball with red wig and child-sized overalls certainly wasn’t mine.”

Demo rubbed his face. “Jesus, just forget it. The only reason we have to tolerate each other is because there’s some soul with soon-to-be-finished business lurking around here, and we picked the short straw. So let’s find whatever apparition, spirit, or poltergeist is squatting in this dump and get out of each other’s hair.”

About to offer some stupid retort, Soldier was abruptly cut off as Eyelander yelped, “w-wait! Poltergeists?? You didn’t say anything about those arseholes!”

Demo and Soldier exchanged a look.

Soldier leveled a frown at the Eyelander. “You are a ghost, maggot. How on God’s green earth are you afraid of ghosts?”

“I’m afraid of poltergeists, eejit,” Eyelander snapped back. “You don’t bloody mess with a geist unless you want your immortal soul turned to shreds and left to wander the infinite abyss forever.”

“Whatever, this is getting us nowhere.” Demo pushed past Soldier. “C’mon. We’ve got a job to do.”

As he passed under the precarious looking chandelier overseeing the foyer, Soldier murmured, “tch. Only ever got the job. Typical.” Demo pretended he hadn’t heard.

What he did hear—over the sounds of the Eyelander whining about powerful forces they didn’t understand and eventually sinking into resigned grumble—was the sound of an organ playing in the deep bowels of the manor.

“Thirty bucks says there’s no one playing it when we get there,” Demo said.

“Deal,” Eyelander replied.

They readied their weapons. Well, not exactly weapons (and definitely not weapons in Soldier’s case, as he strangled his vacuum’s hose in a viselike grip), but tools that would get this bloody ghost out of here and let Demo go home for the day. His footsteps scraped decades old rugs as he padded carefully across the ground, power glove extended into the gloom before him. No readings yet, save for Eyelander’s steady thrum, but as soon as they crossed the barrier of the music room the EKG jumped like crazy.

“Called it,” Demo said as the organ continued to press down one ivory key after another, despite the only human beings in the room being the two mercs who had just entered. “Pay up, Eyelander.”

“Sure! Let me just grab my wallet.”

“Smart-arse.”

“It’s called a pommel.”

“If you two ladies are finished,” Soldier growled, drawing closer to the haunted piano, “let’s bag this ghost-maggot.”

Demo rolled his eye, sweeping to the other side of the organ that’s girth took up the entirety of the room, pipes clawing at the ceiling as wax burned down to nubs around it. “You ‘n your cleaning supplies just stand back.”

“And let you fumble our ticket out of here? I don’t think so.” Soldier flipped on his Hoover.

The glove began to gyrate in Demo’s palm. “You’re the one who’s messing this up! If you’d just believe me when I tell you something-”

“How can I believe you when your history of treachery continues?”

They were nearing the organ now, the disk glowing a menacing red and the vacuum jumping like it was trying to escape Soldier’s hands. The music doubled its tempo, growing more erratic with every step the pair took toward its console.

“There is no history,” Demo spat. “I didn’t do it in the first place!”

“But you still took the contract!”

“Because you did first!”

There wasn’t so much music now as random mashing of keys, a pained wailing accompanying the stressed notes in an unholy shriek. A bolt of electricity shot from the glove collided with something on the piano seat, revealing a ghastly form in the middle of the two men.

“Maybe I would have gone back on it!” Soldier roared as he struggled to maintain control of the hose, writhing in his hands like a viper. “If you’d talked to me I would have known it wasn’t-”

“THAT SHOULDN’T BE MY RESPONSIBILITY.”

“WELL IT HAS TO BE SOMEBODY’S.”

As Soldier screamed his final words, the ghost between them joined in the crescendo. The two forces on either of its sides pulled and pulled at its edges, wind howling and light flashing until-

Demo and Soldier were thrown into opposite walls with a resounding crack.

Grimacing, Demo pushed himself up, rubbing away the white spots in his vision that their techno-vortex had left him with. When things were mostly clear, he blinked at the organ seat, finding no trace of the specter the power glove had briefly outlined.

“Did we get it?” Soldier asked, likewise suppressing aches as he got to his feet.

“Dunno.” Demo tapped a few buttons on his glove. “Well there’s only one reading now. Maybe we fried it?”

“Bag isn’t full,” Soldier noted, poking the vacuum. “Must’ve.”

“Hm. I suppose that was climactic enough. I’m fine with leaving if you are.”

“There’s nothing I want more,” Soldier said, already halfway to the door.

“Feeling’s mutual,” Demo grumbled, following him out. “Went down pretty easy, all things considered. Barely a quarter of ‘ole Merasmus’s hit points. Can’t believe Eyelander was scared of that.”

The Eyelander said nothing.

Demo stopped walking. “You alright, mate?” he asked over his shoulder to where Eyelander was sheathed.

Still, it didn’t respond. He pulled it out, a soft sssth in the now quiet music room, and held it in front of him. He was about to ask it again, when Eyelander finally blurted, “oh uh! Right, me. I’m fine, just peachy, how are you?”

Soldier paused, and turned on his heel. “RED. Why doesn’t your sword have a stupid accent anymore?”

“Uh, crap uh,” the sword sputtered. “Blimey is what I meant to say governor! Pip pip bob’s your uncle and all that!”

“You!” Demo said, squeezing the imposter ghost for all it was worth, to which it gave a tiny eep! “What have you done with Eyelander?”

“Look, this doesn’t have to be a problem right?” the geist said. “I can still be a haunted sword! And do whatever it is the old ghost did, but please don’t make me get out. I’ve been trapped in that organ for fifty years! I want to go, see the world, oh please oh please take me with you?”

“Maybe we let it,” Soldier snorted. “Can’t be any more annoying than the old one.”

“That’s not funny,” Demo snapped, then turned his singular glare to the sword. “Listen here you useless lump of ectoplasm, you tell me what you did with my friend or I’m going to turn your soul into sizzling anti-matter.”

“No!”

And to Demo’s shock, the sword went flying from his hands, shooting up into the room’s ceiling.

“No, I won’t go back!” Encased in an orange glow, the sword maneuvered under its own power, spinning wildly until it had become an airborne lawnmower blade. “Screw you guys!”

“Shite!” Demo said as he charged out after it as it went shooting into the hall.

He followed it all the way to the foyer again, sprinting around each corner just to keep it in sight, but when he arrived out of breath at the grand staircases he had to admit there was no catching it.

“Shite,” he repeated.

“What in the goddamn hell was that about?” Soldier had, of course, followed him back to the entrance. “Now we’re stuck here until we find it again. Couldn’t have withheld your groveling freak out for one damn second.”

“I wasn’t just going to let it steal Eyelander’s sword!” Demo retaliated.

“You and the fucking Eyelander,” Solder swore, helmet wobbling as a snarl curled on his features. “Always with the Eyelander. You care more about that sword than you do anyone else, and you always fucking pick it in the end.”

They were in each other’s faces once more, nose to nose as the manor creaked around them. Demo glared, and softly replied, “well maybe the sword is better company.”

That might have been the end of it any other time, but they were too close now, too entwined, and Soldier grabbed the front of Demo’s shirt. “…God damn you,” he muttered. His face rippled with something unrecognizable. “That’s what I mean. Maybe that wasn’t you in the video, but when you took that contract you started saying crap like that.”

A hard knot found itself in Demo’s throat. He ignored the beeping coming from his glove. “After hearing ‘I never liked you’ enough times, it’s hard not to believe it.”

“…We ever going to stop lying to each other?”

Demo pulled the hand from the front of his shirt. The beeping was growing incessantly loud but he blocked it out, only focusing on stamping away from the Soldier-

And not noticing when the chandelier above him gave an ominous jolt.

His head whipped up too late when the chain broke, the glove practically screaming as he froze in panic for split second-

The cacophany when the chandelier came down was earsplitting, hundreds of glass teardrops shattering on the marble floor below, crashing into each other as their frame became nothing more than a bent pile of metal. Demo wheezed, having been thrown into a solid surface for the second time in less then ten minutes, and his brain caught up enough to realize he wasn’t dead.

The Soldier, having tackled Demo to bring him out of the worse of the poltergeist’s attack, had taken the brunt of it. He winced, rolling onto the hip that didn’t have any glass stuck in it.

“Christ,” Demo hissed, staring at the broken fixture. “It really is trying to kill us now, isn’t it?”

“You threatened to atomize its soul,” Soldier grunted. “Can’t blame it.”

Demo’s eye reaffixed to the bleeding BLU, tongue catching on the question. “You-” But what was he even supposed to say?

Soldier avoided his gaze. “Shut it, maggot. This was merely a rescue based on contempt and rivalry—no one’s allowed to kill you but me, yadda yadda, you get the picture.”

“Soldier…”

Years of bitter hatred choked down whatever else he would have said, but they couldn’t stop the swell of concern as he watched blood bloom on Soldier’s jumpsuit.

“Here,” he said, getting to his knees and picking his way through the broken glass. “Let’s get you up.”

Soldier glared in suspicion. Their argument still hung hot, bar of iron glowing yet unforged, not sure what shape it was suppose to take. But the blood was moving steadily down Soldier’s leg, and with distaste he resigned himself to being lifted under one arm.

“I can do it myself, maggot,” Soldier said once Demo had helped him to the stairs and tried to push up his pant leg.

Demo stared at him for a moment, hand holding the bandage he’d torn from the jumpsuit’s opposite leg, eye unargumentative as he gazed at the Soldier. A few more seconds of reproach ticked by, but then Soldier sighed in resignation, glancing away as Demo tied up his leg.

When it was over, he wasted no time getting to his feet, refusing Demo’s arm this time. “Definitely can’t let that thing run wild now,” he said. “Get your stupid glove to tell us where it is.”

There was an obvious limp to his walk, but Demo knew he had survived worse. That Demo had put him through worse.

The Demoman tapped his wrist a few times and said, “this way.”

The second floor was just rows and rows of suits of armor. All of them identical, all of them leaning down menacingly as the mercenaries passed beneath, listening to the spooktralizer’s pulse become a steady companion. There was constant draft, a thrumming chill up Demo’s spine, and he tried to remind himself that ghosts had the power to get inside your head and trigger your fear response. The fact that the haunt had turned murderous was nothing to be worried about—that he was, in all reality, afraid of no ghost.

The nearest suit of armor vibrated, and he jumped three feet in the air.

So did Soldier, bristling like a cat and demanding, “show yourself Casper! I am not afraid of your pathetic saber rattling!”

In response, every suit in the hall lifted it arms.

Soldier yelped, and he and Demo found themselves back to back, their respective ghost hunting equipment bared in front of them. But they were surrounded, the suits jerking to life and taking their first halting steps off their pedestals, clanking stiffly at the two mercenaries. They were forced backwards, one step, then two, until suddenly Demo found himself on the ground, the creeping terror that he’d been repressing now roaring overpoweringly. It was just a mind trick, just a manipulation, but knowing that and being able to act were vastly different things—and as the ancient warriors drew closer, he reached out and clung desperately to the closest thing he could find.

Clang went the greaves in front of him, coming to a stop as the full-body rattle started again. Shaking and shaking and Demo didn’t look, burying his face in Soldier’s shoulder-

“Ayyyiiieeeeeee,” a voice screamed as something small and spectral went spinning out of the armor.

After several seconds of silence from the suits around them, Demo finally lifted his head. All the armor had gone stiff and immobile, and the only clue to their previous animation was the ghostly impression of a sword floating a few feet off the ground.

“Eyelander?” he blinked.

“Uhhhg…my rain gaurd…” the Eyelander’s apparition groaned. “What…urhg…what happened? …….And why are you two cuddling?”

Demo looked down to find Soldier was clinging to him just as tightly as Demo was to he. Soldier realized it at the same time, and immediately pushed Demo off him, saying, “I did not give you permission to use me for comfort and safety, maggot!”

“Oi! You were the one who started it!” Demo turned his attention to the Eyelander. “What the bloody hell was that about? You trying to make us crap our pants?”

“Urhg, I don’t know!” Eyelander snapped. “If I’m not concentrating on anything in particular I just end up doing ghost type things. Like how you just start making horse noises when you think you’re home alone.”

Soldier snickered. Demo shot him a glare.

Ignoring him, Soldier got to his feet and dusted himself off. “That’s one thing to check off the list.” He paused, inspecting the form floating before him. “…Why are you a sword?”

“…I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Wait, no, Soldier’s right,” Demo said, getting up as well. “You’re not in the blade anymore, you can look like anything you want! You used to be a mortal, didn’t you?”

“I don’t remember okay?” it snapped. “That was centuries ago, I don’t know how to be anything but a ghost sword.”

“Aw, give it a shot mate,” Demo encouraged. “If we’re going to hunting around for the geist that stole your sword, you might as well try a new form.”

“…Alright, I guess I can give it a try.”

Slowly, the illusion in front of them melted, growing until it was humanoid, then rippling as details began to make its shape. The jaw strengthen, and a hole appeared in the right side its face, features sharpening until a near-copy of the Demoman stood next to the suit of armor. It was a hazy reflection, as though looking at himself in green glass, but a reflection just the same.

“Hey, don’t be me,” Demo said.

“Yeah, we already got enough of those,” Soldier added under his breath.

“Uhg,” it complained. “Sorry. You’re the most recent person I’ve been.” The uncanny valley was further emphasized that Eyelander forgot to move Demo’s mouth when it was speaking.

“Just be yourself,” Demo insisted, as much due to the ghost-him’s creepiness as the fact that he was a bit curious about who Eyelander used to be. “Go on, give it a shot.”

Grumbling without moving its mouth, the Eyelander began to change again, Demo’s features swept away as though lost on the wind. It grew inexorably, towering of the mortals below it like a warrior from myth; then it shrank, arms and ghostly blade disproportionately detailed like recalling a fighting feeling.

Both of these faded, other particulars bubbling up from the surface. A tartan hood crawled over the general shape of a head, plunging the face into inscrutability. From its shoulders sprung a cape, one that would have pooled across the ground if the mirage weren’t floating a half-foot off the stone. A thick tunic billowed, then fell down to the mirage’s knees, held in place by a sash across its chest.

The face beneath flickered. Morphing, becoming-

“Damn it,” Eyelander groaned as the features fell back into darkness, effort weakening its voice. “I really don’t remember.”

“Ach, it’s fine Eyelander,” he assured it, hearing the clear disappointment. “We’ll get your sword back in no time.”

“…Thanks mate.”

Suddenly, Soldier pushed past him, far roughing than necessary. “If the ghost is done having an identity crisis, lets get back to busting.”

Demo frowned after him, but according to the readings he was headed in the right direction, so he said nothing to it.

Eyelander was a different story. “OoooOOOoooo, jealous again are we?” Catching up to him was no problem when it could simply glide across the ground, cape fluttering behind it.

“Silence apparition!” Soldier stated. “You cannot get inside my head with your devil words, nor your OoooOOOoooo.”

Eyelander cackled, floating in front of him and forcing him to walk into it. He shivered as he passed through the ethereal dregs, breaking from his path and pivoting into the nearest set of doors. They found themselves in the grand library, tiers upon tiers of floor-to-ceiling books simply rotting in the dust. Cobwebs clung to everything, ancient lamps and moldering fainting couches, rendering the entire room silent.

“Touch a nerve?” Eyelander was enjoying its new ‘body’, swinging a spectral arm over Soldier’s shoulder that he was unable to shrug off. “Not still mad he likes me better than you?”

“Only goes to show how poor his taste is,” Soldier snapped.

Demo had to jog to catch up. The library’s various stone busts turned to watch him as he moved.

“Maybe, if he was hanging out with you to begin with,” Eyelander persisted. “Does that bother you, yankee doodle?”

“Eyelander, lay off him,” Demo said, surprising even himself when the words came out of his mouth. Soldier didn’t look, breathing heavily through his nose

“Why?” the ghost huffed. It was odd seeing the body language to accompany it for once, the entity folding its arms across its chest. “He’s the one who throws a fit whenever I’m around, and I’m bloody sick of it. Why should I have to put up with some moron you don’t want anything to do with?”

“Shut your nonexistent mouth!” Soldier was really heated now. “If you keep talking to me I will put my boot up so far up your ass you will feel it in the afterlife!”

“OoooOOOoooo,” Eyelander said, and it was a proper ghostly ooo that reverberated about the empty library. “I’m so scared. Should I start crying out in fear? That’s all a lout like you knows how to do, just yell until someone cries and then piss off entirely. Well guess what, eejit, he’s just fine without you.”

“I am warning you…” Soldier growled.

“Oh but that doesn’t stop you from getting all possessive does it?” Eyelander just goaded, heedless of anything else but its own petty revenge. “More possessive than me, and I’m the one possessing him! Is that the sort of bond you’re going for yank? Spending a lot of time in-”

With a furious scream, Soldier launched himself at the Eyelander. On instinct, it jerked to the side to try and avoid his murderous hands, but it didn’t matter either way as Soldier when flying through the ghost’s form and crashed into the bookcase behind it.

The bookcase swung like a revolving door, and Soldier disappeared from view.

Eyelander and Demo shared a glance. “Did that just…?” he asked.

“Hold on.” It glided forward, passing through the bookcase unimpeded. A moment later, it stuck its head back out through the wall and said, “aye! It’s a secret passage! Some stairs going down into a basement of some sort.”

“Stairs? Is Solder alright?” Demo worried as he came forward and tried to trigger whatever had moved the loose shelf.

The Eyelander stuck its head in, then back out again. “Eh, I’m sure he’s fine.”

Demo found him, if not exactly fine, then stabilized. His leg had started bleeding again, but the tumble down the basement stairs had shaken the fight out of him. He let Demo rebandage his injuries with barely a word.

“Good work finding the passage, lad,” Demo said, as though he didn’t feel a terrible heat of embarrassment on the back of his neck. “Based on the readings, that’s where the ghost is hiding.”

“Hm,” was all Soldier said. He wouldn’t look at either Demo or the levitating knight.

“…Eyelander, why don’t you float on ahead?” Demo said after a moment. “Scout things out a bit for us?”

“Yeah, sure. Not being bound to a mortal vessel anymore gives you a lot more free range of movement.”

Demo helped Soldier to his feet. Several long minutes were spent walking down a cold, damp tunnel, only illuminated by bulbs covered in metal grates that flickered in sync. When Eyelander had drifted far enough ahead in its impatience, Demo asked what had been on his mind since they’d come down here, spinning over as the guilt he’d been holding back for years weighed heavier on him than it ever had.

“…Jane?” he mumbled. The Soldier jumped at his real name. “What Eyelander said back there…have I really been…?”

“Don’t believe anything that comes out of that ghost’s pie hole! Its ghost pie hole! Where it puts its ghost pies!” Soldier barked hastily. “It is- I don’t-!”

Demo let Soldier sputter for a moment before frowning at the floor. “I’m sorry.”

Soldier choked mid denial and whipped his head so hard his eyes showed wild underneath the helmet. “You- What?”

“You were right,” Demo rubbed his face. “About always lying to each other. Saying we didn’t care, just to make it easier. And you’re right that I treat my friends like crap sometimes, picking the sword—the job—over anybody else. So I fucked up too, believing their lies just as much, listening to them because it was the easiest.” He lifted his head, making eye contact with the alarmed Soldier. “So maybe I do pick the sword sometimes. But I never should have taken a bribe over my best friend.”

They’d stopped walking, Soldier just staring at him, mouth slightly open.

Soldier breathed in deep. “…Your best friend?”

Cautiously, taking care not to startle Soldier or his own frayed nerves, Demo reached out and held Soldier’s hand. He could hear Soldier’s labored breaths, even as the BLU looked down so steeply at their linked hands that his helmet obscured is whole face.

“Aye.”

Soldier’s mouth writhed a second longer before saying, “I’m sorry. Too. For all the crap I said to you after. I didn’t mean any of it either, I always liked you. I always…”

Demo squeezed his hand. “We’ll talk after we get my sword back, aye?”

Soldier finally lifted his chin, a grin of joyous relief across it. “Affirmative! We will beat the crap out of that weapon-stealing cheat, and then boot it back to kingdom come.”

“Our powers combined, eh?” Demo wiggled the fingers on the power glove.

Soldier lifted his hose. “Lets get this spirit-maggot!”

“Are you two coming?” the Eyelander demanded, reappearing in the grimy tunnel before them. “There’s this big evil laboratory at the end of the hall and the bell-end body-snatcher is just waiting for someone to come and kick its pommel.”

Demo grinned at his once-again best mate. “Don’t worry Eyelander, that bastard’s got another thing coming.”

The rescue squad stormed into the evil lab, magic and science and supernatural forces in hand. The room was exactly what you’d think: test tubes full of pulsating green goo, an open slab with leather straps around it, giant Tesla coils pointing all which way as though the whole space was ready to zap you at a moment’s notice.

“You!” Eyelander demanding, pointing a menacing spectral finger at the sword floating in the center of the room.

“Aw crap,” it said as it turned and saw the trio of ghostbusters that had come for its soul.

Immediately, it tried to make a run for it, zipping off on a trail of orange magic. But Soldier was faster, flipping the Hoover to ‘suck’ and immediately summoning a typhoon from the nozzle’s end. The geist shrieked as it was pulled backwards, forward momentum fighting against the suction until was it pulled taught mid-air. Demo wasn’t going to inadvertently help it this time, though. Instead, he stood shoulder to shoulder with his best mate, and sent a pulse of magnetic energy to join the vacuum’s pull.

“NOOOOOooooo,” the geist screamed as it began to lose ground.

It still wasn’t enough. A humanoid shape was being drawn from the sword, but that only made it struggle harder, fighting tooth and nail as it screamed all the while.

The Eyelander’s spirit stormed forward. With both hands it gripped the sword, pulling away from its rival ghost with its impressive incorporeal biceps. The geist screamed harder, but in a three-on-one it was losing, even as it tried to wrench the hilt away. Eyelander grabbed above the crossguard, and a gush of ethereal blood splattered on the floor, but the extra leverage worked, and it ripped the blade free from enemy hands.

Eyelander reared back, and the ghost went falling into the vacuum with a scream.

The impact knocked Demo flat on his ass. It wasn’t as rough as the first explosion, but he still groaned as he sat up. “We get it this time?”

Soldier poked the bag, which moaned in protest. “Yup. We got it.”

“How about you Eyelander?” Demo got up and walked to where the sword had fallen. “Everything back in the bits?”

“Uhrg…my whole fuller hurts,” the blade on the floor said in what was definitely the Eyelander’s voice. “Put me back in my scabbard…I want a nap.”

Demo chuckled, and did as he was asked.

“Teamwork saves the day!” Soldier declared, walking up to the pair. “Goes to show what camaraderie and true American sprit can do.” He clapped Demo on the shoulder, and the two exchanged a smile.

“…Did I miss something?” Eyelander asked from its sling on Demo’s back.

“Nah,” Demo said. “Jane ‘n I just worked some things out. Don’t worry your pretty little locket about it.”

“We are best friends again!” Soldier was too excited to hold back. He grabbed Demo’s hand again and squeezed.

The two shared a look of shining eyes and full hearts.

“Yuck,” Eyelander noted. “Do I have to be here for this?”

“Ah, shut it,” Demo said. “We just saved your life.”

“I didn’t want to be brought along in the first place!”

“You hate being left alone at the base,” Demo pointed out.

“Yeah but that was before you brought ghosthunting into the picture. You should have known better! What if one of your stupid machines had malfunctioned and killed me instead?”

As they walked back up through the secret passage, Soldier leaned toward the scabbard and said, “looks like there’s trouble in paradise after all, huh.” Demo had never heard him be smugger.

“Keep grinning, eejit,” Eyelander grumbled. “Next time we get into battle I’m carving a new smile into your throat.”

Soldier snickered, and they left the manor victorious.

[scotianostra]

Thomas, Lord Erskine was born January 10th 1750. During his lifetime he became Britain's foremost advocate, through his defence of people accused of treason and corruption.

His defence of Thomas Paine, accused of high treason for his work, The Rights of Man, cost him his position as Attorney General to the Prince of Wales. Later, Erskine totally alienated George IV by defending Queen Caroline against the king's attempt to deprive her of her rights and title.

Rather go into all the boring education, career stuff I will focus more on the man, the character, for I think Lord Erskine was a bit of a character, he had a favourite dog  with him at all his consultations in Chambers a favourite a large 

Newfoundland dog called "Toss". He taught it to sit upon a chair in chambers with his paws placed before him on the table. Erskine would put an open book before him, a wig upon his head and one of his advocate's bands around his neck. What his clients thought of this exhibition we do not know, but it is unlikely that they would have forsaken him for another counsel.

He was obviously an animal lover a dog he kept by him was one he had rescued from some boys in the street when they were about to kill it. Later, on March 2, 1811, he sent a bitch to a fellow peer  with a note to say that, "her name is Lucky and may all good luck attend your Lordship".

He also had a pet goose which followed him about in his grounds, a macaw and a great many other dumb friends. He even had two special leeches which he believed had saved his life when he was ill and which he called his "bottle conjurors". These he kept in a glass and, he said, he gave them fresh water every day and had formed a friendship with them. He would often argue the likely result of a case on how they swam or crawled.

Erskine said he was sure they both knew him and were grateful to him. They were called "Home" and "Cline" after two celebrated surgeons with quite different dispositions. He amassed the company at a party given at his villa in Hampstead, near "The Spaniard's Inn", by talking about his regard for animals and, in particular, those to whom he was attached. He then produced the leeches in their glass which he placed upon the table. It was impossible, however, wrote Samuel Romilly who was present, "without the vivacity, the tones, the details, and the gestures of Lord Erskine, to give an adequate idea of this singular scene".

He introduced into the Lords a Bill for the prevention of malicious and wanton cruelty to animals, saying that it was a subject very near to his heart. Disgusting outrages, which he said 

"were too painful to describe, were being perpetrated upon animals whilst the law did nothing. This was because animals were considered only as property. They were entirely without protection from cruelty and they had no rights. Yet man's dominion over them was not given by God for their torture but as a moral trust.

Nature had provided the same organs and feelings for enjoyment and happiness to animals as to man -- seeing, hearing, feeling, thinking, the sensations of pain and pleasure, love, anger and sensibility to kindness. Such creatures might have been created for man's use but not for his abuse. Towards them, as in all other things, men's duties and interests were inseparable. Extending humanity to animals would have a most powerful effect on men's moral sense and upon their feelings and sympathies for each other."

When the speech was published as a pamphlet, its editor suggested in the Preface that it should be introduced to families and schools and deserved to be circulated "among the lower classes of society by the clergy, and by all moral and pious persons'.

When the Bill was in its Committee stage, Erskine pointed out that during his 30 years of Parliamentary life he had never before proposed any alteration in the law. He still had no wish, he said, to link a statute with his name; he had a better motive. If the Bill were enacted, it would not only be an honour to the country but would mark an era in the history of the world. In the event, the House of Commons proved not to be ready for animal rights and the Bill was defeated but eventually went through in 1809.

Lastly and briefly, perhaps our Lord Erskine was also a wee bit of a romantic, he survived his first wife, Frances, she passed away in 1805 after 35 years of marriage, on October 12, 1818 he married Sarah Buck in Gretna Green, he was 20 years her senior.

It is said he never missed a day in court and led a very healthy life but in 1823 Erskine set out by sea on a visit to Scotland with one of his sons, hoping to see his brother the Earl of Buchan. But he became ill with a chest infection on the journey and was put ashore at Scarborough.

He managed to travel to the home of his brother Henry's widow in Almondell in West Lothian, where they were joined by the earl. He died at Almondell on 17 November 1823 and was buried in the family burial-place at Uphall in present day West Lothian.

[cosplayinamerica]

Madame Leota from Haunted Mansion / cosplayer : @alia_vera

Dressing as Madame Leota was inspired by many years of visiting Disneyland with my favorite ride being the Haunted Mansion.  My family wanted to do a group costume for Halloween to participate in a local costume parade, so we chose this theme with various family members dressing as characters from the ride.  My family has always loved Halloween and that’s how I got into costuming in the first place. 

For those who aren’t familiar, the Madame Leota character calls forth the spirits in the seance room of the ride and is essentially a floating glowing head in a crystal ball above a card reading table.  She was the obvious character for me because not only do I love her, but I also knew I could use my powerchair to my advantage with being at a lower table height and by having my chair support the table structure.

I could not hear a thing in my Madame Leota costume with my head in that globe with all the fans running, no one could hear me, and I couldn’t gesture from under the table.  So, I had my husband and I connected through Bluetooth earpieces and he was the only one I could talk to or hear.  All day people kept trying to talk to me, but it was like they had to go through my bodyguard! 

We also spent some time waiting in line for the parade to start and I would just hold perfectly still letting people believe I was a table and prop- they even tried to lean on me- then I would slowly and eerily turn my head and make direct eye contact.  I really startled some people with that!  I maintained that eerie head turn during the parade as I rolled down the route and people couldn’t figure out if I was a real person or not until I looked them straight in the eyes!

In the current Disneyland ride, Madame Leota is basically a crystal ball with a disembodied head inside floating above a table, but in older versions, the crystal ball sat directly upon the table.  I opted to pass on decapitation and emulate the older version, so I constructed a table surface to rest on my wheelchair frame and placed a large hole for the crystal ball to be placed.

 I used tablecloths to cover the table, my body, and the wheelchair, including a table cloth with the wallpaper pattern from the ride.  The crystal ball I used was a large acrylic globe meant to cover an outdoor light.  It had poor ventilation, so I used small fans to blow air in and out of the globe from the table underneath and I cut ventilation holes into the table.  I also installed battery operated lights around the globe hole shining upwards for added ambiance at night.  I found the most amazing blue and white wig that was huge enough to fill nearly the whole globe and I added blue LED lights in the wig scalp to make it glow at night. 

Of course, I had a couple of battery operated candles to set the mood, too.  For make-up, I used white foundation and contoured with blue and green to emulate the glowing effect from the ride.  And then I just scowled and sucked in my cheeks the whole time since Leota has cheekbones to die for!

Alas, I have yet to attend a convention in costume.  It’s certainly a goal of mine as I would love to see all those amazing costumes in person.  I am working on building up my ability to be in large crowded spaces which can sometimes be a bit overwhelming and take a lot of energy for me to navigate.  I’m very thankful for Instagram and social media which have helped me to connect with the costuming and cosplay community online.

I always loved dressing up for Halloween and even as a child, I had a singular vision of how I wanted my costumes to look.  That singular vision meant that I had to custom make accessories and clothing.  So, out of a love of costuming, I learned to sew and became an avid crafter.  As my health has become more challenging with time, those skills stay with me and for the most part, these craft hobbies are still accessible to me, though sewing has been on the back burner for a while.  

My latest projects have been around personalizing my newest power chair, like making custom cushion covers and accessories for myself.  I love looking at mobility aids not just as tools, but as an extension of the body which are to be celebrated and adorned.  I love the growing community online that gets so creative with connecting costume and fashion with mobility aids.

.

[shutupandshipit]

Live Stream - Oneshot

Summary: Everyone knew that if you wanted to have sex or needed help through you heat/rut, you went to Midoriya.

Or where Midoriya is promiscuous and a cam girl, and Kirishima is an avid viewer who catches part of a live stream that wasn't meant to be live.

Pairing: Bakudeku

Rating: M

Notes: More outside POV for BakuDeku! I told y'all that I wasn't going to stop. I might expand on this one later, just because I love a good shameless slut character (because there's nothing shameless about enjoying sex). Also, I love a good cam girl fic.

Aaaaanyway, I've got Kiri's POV this time for you to partake in. Hope y'all enjoy! See you in my next one!

Everyone knew that if you wanted to have sex or needed help through you heat/rut, you went to Midoriya. He was the unapologetic slut of the school with a never ending stream of lovers to entertain him. Even the teachers knew about his exploits, but never did anything about it simply due to the decrease of rut and heat related attacks. They promised though that if a pregnancy occurred or there was a sudden rash of STIs, there would be repercussions.

Midoriya had taken the warning in stride and shrugged it off. He had told Kirishima time and time again that he had no plans of getting pregnant so early in his life and career.

Everyone also knew that he only took credit for having sex with you. If it ruined any relationship you may have been in, well then that was your problem.

Midoriya had a few simple questions he asked you and rules that you had to follow if you so happened to partake in his services.

1) No touching. For the duration of your session, your hands would be tied to his headboard. That was non-negotiable. The rule was in place for his protection more than yours. This was sometimes relaxed when it came to friends of partners he saw frequently and trusted enough to know what they were allowed to do.

2) No biting. Being tied to the headboard, it was harder to accomplish than normally, but if you made any attempt to do so, you'd be out of his room whether you'd gotten off or not. He expected you to find control even in a heat/rut haze. If you couldn't control yourself, you had no right being in his bed. There were no exceptions.

3) A condom would be used at all times. He didn't take it raw or suck dick without protection. It was simple as that.

4) Do not involve emotions. It wasn't his fault if you caught feelings for him, and he would not take responsibility for them. Sex with him was a no strings attached, purely physical transaction. He was a bunny omega after all with a sexual appetite that couldn't be satisfied by one singular person, so there was no room to get butt hurt about any other partners the frequented his bed.

5) Do not, under any circumstances, ask about his heat or offer your services during his heat. If you did, you were liable to have your ass verbally flayed and all contact with him cut immediately.

6) Rule 6 was probably the most important of all. You would be recorded and posted on his cam channel. Only your lower half would be shown. Your face would never be recorded. If you weren't okay with that or refused to sign his release form, you wouldn't make it passed his threshold.

His questions were simple as well.

1) Were you clean? This included drugs, STIs and any contagious sickness you may have at the time.

2) Were you in your heat/rut?

3) Had you ever had sex before?

He didn't ask if you were in a relationship because he didn't care. It was your choice to meet with him, so you were liable for any consequences caused by your actions. So if something did happen, you weren't allowed to come crying to him.

The last thing everyone knew was that he spent his heat alone. Or at least, if he did have someone he shared them with, no one knew who it was.

Kirishima knew all of this from personal experience. Even though he and Mina were together, it was hard to satisfy his alpha with another alpha, and the same went for her. So, they both employed Midoriya's services pretty often, both alone and together. They were one of the only couples Midoriya featured, and it had shot his popularity through the roof after the first video he did with them.

He offered a kick back of any money he made from his videos, but from what Kirishima knew, people rarely took him up on his offer. All the money he made went to his mother and omega related foundations. He was in it to satisfy his omega, and the money was simply a byproduct.

Kirishima had asked Midoriya once how much his partners would receive if they did take his offer, and the amount had floored him. He hoped all those foundations put his donations to good use.

It always surprised him exactly how popular Midoriya was on the internet.

Then again, sitting in his room with his laptop open on his stomach, nodding off as he waited for Midoriya's Friday live stream to begin, he could see the chat room already filling. 1,000 turned into 2,000 turned into 3,000, and just kept ticking. A countdown ran down on the screen, and people had already begun tittering away in the chat.

Kirishima wondered if the entire school was watching. He knew at least half of his class was. That's why the dorm was always so quiet on Fridays save for the sounds coming from Midoriya's room.

Just like every Friday at exactly 8 o'clock, the stream went live. Midoriya sat on his bed in front of a black back drop and on top of creamy white sheets, knees splayed out to his sides. He wore pure white lace panties and garter belt. Encasing his arms and legs were silvery metallic support sleeves that his garter belt clipped onto. A half face bunny mask covered the upper portion of his face. A white wig to match the white tuft of his tail covered his very recognizable green hair. The green fur of his ears had been sprayed with temporary white dye that would wash out when he showered.

When he was on his channel, he became Snow Bunny, beloved omega of the cam world.

Despite who he filmed with, not everyone who watched his channel knew who he was, and he did what he could to hide his identity.

Granted, if you asked him, he would say that society should normalize sex in relation to heroes. They could be sex icons in their own right, but if they were actually caught having sex or with multiple partners, it was a scandal. He wasn't really that concerned if his channel was discovered later in his career, but right now, it wouldn't do him any favors.

Kirishima commended him on that because he just wasn't that brave or confident.

"Hi, everyone! Oh my gosh, there's so many of you! I feel so lucky and blessed! Oh, no, no. I've got a guest here with me tonight. Not going solo today," Midoriya said in a sweet, high voice that was several octaves above his normal speaking voice, answering one of the flurry of questions in the chat. He peered at the screen intently, smiling widely. "Thank you 'johnfromohio' for the tip! I'm so grateful. How was everyone's week? Wonderful, I hope. I know mine was."

Midoriya was lying, at least Kirishima assumed he was. The class had spent the week getting their asses handed to them during training as was evident by the various stages of bruising across his torso and backs. They extended beneath his support sleeves as well. At some point, Recovery Girl had started to refuse to heal him day after day, hoping to curve his reckless behavior, but it hadn't worked quite yet.

On screen. Midoriya spread his legs, giving the camera a healthy view of his dick straining against the white lace. "Oh, don't worry about the bruises, loves! They're all healing well, and I got them all in good fun." He winked, smiling enough so that his canines poked out over his bottom lip.

Midoriya -or rather, Snow Bunny- was the most popular cam omega on the internet. It seemed unlikely. There were hundreds of other bunny omegas that worked as cam omegas that could have been just as famous, but none of them looked like Midoriya. Where he was toned and muscular, his counterparts had the bodies typical of omegas. Thin and reedy and lacking all muscular definition. Soft where he was deceptively hard.

Not only that, but his dick was more akin to the size of an average betas rather than tiny like most male omegas were. His fangs were not those typical for his second gender either. Sharp and pointy though still small, could cause damage if given the opportunity.

If Midoriya didn't slick and go through heat, he would have been a beta. Or even an alpha. He exuded the presence and confidence of an alpha. A wolf in sheep's clothing, praying on unsuspecting and willing alphas. Satisfying omegas when he shouldn't be able to.

He was a conundrum that Kirishima avidly virtually partook in most nights, sometimes alone, sometimes with Mina, sometimes with the other guys.

Except for Bakugou who never stuck around long enough for a video to load. Kirishima wasn't sure if he even watched porn or had seen any of Midoriya's exploits. Let alone enjoyed his bed. Their relationship was better than it had been before, but they still got into arguments that ended with destruction of property. He wasn't sure what Bakugou did during his ruts, but he thought they must have been lonely.

Even now, Bakugou would have been settling down for the night. Either reading a book or something else to wind down before bed.

Just like Kirishima should have been doing. The day had been long and grueling, and tomorrow promised to be more of the same. Still, he wanted to watch the stream.

He blinked several times, trying to clear the tiredness from his eyes as Midoriya smiled into the camera and turned to show off a crystal white as snow nestled between his cheeks.

"I'm all ready to go, loves, but this is for someone else. I've got to introduce my guest for tonight." He moved aside to flip the blanket off two pale legs. A thin, long tail of coarse yellow fur flicked back and forth across the mattress. "I found this little kitten omega all alone in the rain today and thought I'd be nice enough to bring him home and play for a bit." He trailed his nails over bare thighs that trembled under his touch. The tail swept faster.

Kirishima huffed, grinning. Now he knew why Kaminari had blown him off for the night.

Midoriya continued talking, dipping his fingers between Kaminari's trembling thighs. They came away dripping, and he licked away the slick to a pitiful moan.

Kirishima's eyes were itchy and each time he blinked, it got harder to keep them open. He scrubbed at them, but to no relief.

Even as Midoriya lovingly flipped Kaminari onto his stomach and hiked up his hips, he felt himself dozing off. When he came to with a jolt, the screen of his computer was dark and the dorms were quieter than usual.

Scrambling to log back in, he groaned when he saw the time. 11:54 PM. He'd slept through the entire stream and then three hours after it. He was the only one left logged into the chat. He was about to turn off his computer for the night when the stream loaded again.

It hadn't been shut off like it normally was at the end of a live stream, and Midoriya's moans slipped from his speakers. The shot was only from the waist down, but everything important was visible.

Strong muscled legs were bent in half as long elegant fingers clutched at Midoriya's ass. The pair slowly rocked together, unhurried in their movements. His fluffy white tuft of a tail betrayed his frantic pleasure, twitching each time his partner pushed into him.

This new person certainly wasn't Kaminari, desperate and scrambling for his climax. If that wasn't the biggest indicator, the other red flag was the fluffy blond wolf's tail that curled around the back of Midoriya's trembling thigh. He lay on top of his new partner, the knee that was visible planted firmly in the mattress.

There wasn't a hair's breath between them, and Kirishima felt like he was violating Midoriya's privacy even as he slowly came to full attention in his boxers. He ignored his hard on, more interested in figuring out who was held so intimately beneath everyone's favorite omega. If Midoriya did one thing constantly, it was keep distance between him and his partners, even when having sex.

When the pair finally came, it was together and quiet with long moans of pleasure followed by the gentle sounds of kissing. They didn't part, just lying still with one another.

It was several long moments of Kirishima's heart splitting his store of blood between his face and groin before they finally spoke.

"Mm," Midoriya hummed, shifting on top, but not moving away, "If this dries, we're going to be stuck together forever." His voice was low and slow, barely a whisper. Kirishima only heard him because everything else was absolutely silent, as if the dorm was holding its breath in the face of their intimacy.

A deep chuckle joined his voice, and Kirishima startled. That laugh was all too familiar even distorted and drenched with sex.

"Too late. You're already stuck with me forever," his partner said, and that voice was all Bakugou.

Kirishima sat straight up in bed, catching his laptop before it could tumble off the side. If he hadn't been blushing before, he definitely was now. He was blushing so hard he could feel his pulse in his cheeks. "Bakugou?" he hissed incredulously, still staring at the screen.

"Why don't you ever ask me to be on your stream?" Bakugou asked. Just a question without the usual demand in his voice.

Midoriya hummed again. "I didn't think you would want to be. You don't watch my videos. I thought you'd be too worried about, you know, everything else. Also..." He trailed off, voice considering as he sat up and slowly lifted himself off Bakugou. Cum and slick trickled from Midoriya's entrance and down the inside of his thigh. They both hissed at the sensation of their uncoupling, and Kirishima flinched in sympathy.

They settled back together, Midoriya's back to the camera and Bakugou's leg hooked over his to pull them closer.

"Also?"

"Also, this is... just for me. They get everything else, but you... You're my beautiful, amazing alpha that I get to have all to myself. You're private. Just for me. I like it that way."

Bakugou hummed, the sound slowly becoming a purr. "Yeah, I like it that way too," he agreed gruffly, "When does your heat start? My rut is in a few days."

Midoriya laughed. "I don't know why you keep checking. We've been synced up since we presented."

As Kirishima watched, the number of people viewing ticked up from 1 to 5.

Before he knew what he was doing, he launched himself from his bed and to his door. Sprinting down the hall and stairs to the second floor, he listened closely as the pair made plans just in case they said anything too incriminating. Without knocking, he slammed into Midoriya's dim room lit only by the light from the laptop. He stood there for the briefest moment, confused about whose name to call. "B-Bunny!"

His own voice echoed back to him from his laptop a millisecond later.

"What?" Midoriya shouted in surprise.

Bakugou pulled him close and sat up, pulling a blanket over them. "What the fuck? You ever hear of knocking, asshole?" he shouted, rage and murder clear on his face, "Why do you have you computer? And why are you hard? Get the fuck out!"

"Your- Uh- The, uh, stream is still live. It never got cut," Kirishima stammered, face so hot he could have sworn he'd become another light source, "I was the only one still logged on, but it's filling back up again pretty quickly." The counter was already reached 300 viewers again.

Horror filled Midoriya's face, and he scrambled from Bakugou's hold, skirting around the view of the camera. Bakugou followed his lead, pressing himself back against the headboard as Midoriya shut the computer off from its power button. The whir of its fan slowly died away leaving only Kirishima's humming computer.

"Close the door, Kirishima, please. I, um, need to log on on your computer if you don't mind so I can see what kind of damage there is and properly shut everything down," Midoriya said calmly, but his hands were trembling and it was quickly spreading to the rest of his body.

"Sure thing," Kirishima blurted, turning his back as Bakugou stood from the bed and wrapped Midoriya in a blanket before turning him into his chest.

"I'm fine. I'm fine. I-I swear. I just can't believe I made that mistake. What if someone saw your face? What if I said your name?" Midoriya rambled, and a twinge of pain shot through Kirishima's chest at the worry in his voice, "I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry."

"It's fine," Bakugou murmured. When Kirishima turned back to them, Bakugou had his arms wrapped around the omega, chin resting on the top of his curly green hair right between his ears. "So what if people saw? They just know that you're mine now. I'm the one who gets the truest version of you."

"But what if-"

"Stop with the what ifs, shitty Deku. Let's find out first if there's anything to be worried about." Bakugou jerked his head to the desk that had been moved earlier into the middle of the room, and Kirishima carefully moved Midoriya's laptop out of the way and set the camera stand off to the side facing the wall. After, he retreated to the far wall.

Midoriya, still bundled tightly in Bakugou's arms as they sat on the edge of his bed, went to work.

A lifetime passed as he combed through the comments from the stream and watched parts of the video before he finally sighed and slumped back against Bakugou's chest. Relief shone clear as a sunny day on his freckled face. "I don't think anyone saw us. And our faces didn't make it on screen, which is a miracle, but if anyone did see and knows our nicknames, well..."

Bakugou shrugged more calmly than Kirishima thought he was capable of. "Then the cat's out of the bag. We're almost graduated. I'm surprised they haven't figured it out yet, but then again, they are all dipshits."

"But-"

"Before you say something that's just going to piss me off, I don't care. We've been faking it for almost two years. I'm tired of having to sneak around and pretend like you're not my mate. So, fuck it. We were going to go public after graduation anyway."

If Kirishima felt like an intruder before, he felt like a proper interloper now as he watched Midoriya stare lovingly up at the alpha, nose twitching wildly as tears filled his eyes.

"Aw, fuck, Deku, don't start crying. You're going to kick start your heat early if you do. I don't think you want Shitty Hair seeing all of that."

Eyes widening and ears standing at attention, Midoriya spun towards Kirishima. "Sorry, Kiri! Thank you though. For letting me use your computer and warning us. I don't know what would have gotten out if you hadn't told us about the stream. I'm really, really grateful. I'll do anything to repay you."

Kirishima's face reddened again at the honest sincerity on Midoriya's face and the way his alpha paced restlessly in his chest. He waved his hands through the air wildly. "You don't have to thank me, I'm just glad everything's alright." He ducked his head in deference as he drew closer to the pair to gather up his computer and Bakugou's warning snarl filled the room. Backing away quickly, he smiled. "I'm going to go back to bed. I'll see you in the morning."

Making a break for the door, he just caught the moment when Bakugou buried his face in the crook of Midoriya's neck and his growl turned into a contented purr. Midoriya giggled as he closed the door.

The next morning without any help from Kirishima, the entire class knew that Bakugou and Midoriya were mates. They were discussing them over breakfast before the pair even appeared, those who had caught the last minutes of the stream speaking the loudest. When they came down, they ignored the others, but didn't pretend like everything was normal. They were completely drenched in each others pheromones and could, for the life of them it seemed, not keep their hands to themselves. Kirishima could of sworn that every time he looked at them, they were pressing close for another kiss.

Spurred on by his friends' show of affection, he nuzzled Mina's neck. She buried his hand in his hair, but continued with her conversation with Momo.

He wondered if the pair were putting on a show, but suspected that this was just how they had always acted behind closed doors. Their affection was as natural as breathing. They were two planets orbiting each other.

He wished that coming out had been on their own terms, but either way, he couldn't have been happier for them.

[letterboxd]

Wigging Out.

Australian director Shannon Murphy on her artful debut, the screaming intensity of Australia’s bird-life, and the genius of Jim Henson.

Like a rush of blood to the head, Shannon Murphy’s Babyteeth is a coming-of-age film that takes hold of your heart and refuses to let go. The Australian filmmaker makes her directorial debut here, from a script by Rita Kalnejais (based on her own play of the same name). It’s at once familiar and unbelievably fresh: loveable, immediately recognizable characters in situations so conflicting, painful and euphoric that it’s very hard for your heart to not break when theirs do.

We follow Milla (Eliza Scanlen, Little Women), a fifteen-year-old who is navigating her first love. The object of her affection is Moses (Toby Wallace), a low-level drug dealer and sofa-surfing addict, who is a few years older. Milla has cancer, which makes her adoration of Moses seem all the more threatening to her parents, the type of passionate-yet-complicated couple that Australian films excel at depicting. The parents are played by Essie Davis (The Babadook, The True History of the Kelly Gang, Miss Fisher) and Ben Mendelsohn (Captain Marvel, Rogue One: A Star Wars Story, the lovely Aussie comedy Cosi). There’s also a pregnant neighbor (Emily Barclay) with a wayward dog, a lot of pill-popping, many wigs, and the intertwining of love, fear and stress that comes with a family illness.

With a background in theater and television directing in Australia, Murphy’s eye is so strong that she was flown to London to direct episodes of Killing Eve off the back of Babyteeth’s 2019 Venice International Film Festival premiere. (She was one of two women, alongside Haifaa al-Mansour with The Perfect Candidate, to be selected in Competition at Venice—the film went on to London, AFI Fest, Rotterdam and others).

Babyteeth has captured the minds of countless viewers, entranced by the singular world being offered. Writing on Letterboxd, Isaac Feldberg calls the film “deliriously, jaggedly alive, so full of broken and beautiful people struggling not to break each other in the midst of their own existential crumblings”. This sense of all-or-nothing was also felt by Emre Eminoglu, who points to the way “it whispers to your eyes and touches your heart with words that it puts on screen”. And Savina Petkova remembers its first screening and has just one request: “Please let me live in the alternative universe where this won Golden Lion instead of [Joker] please.”

Chatting about devastation, drugs and the punk ambitions of fashion when you’re a teenage girl, Shannon Murphy speaks to our London correspondent Ella Kemp.

How did you first come across Rita’s play? Shannon Murphy: I didn’t actually see the play, which is crazy because my theater career started in the theater that it was on at, but I missed it somehow. When I came on to Babyteeth, the screenplay was already ready to go. I went back and read the play just before we started pre-production, and the thing I really loved in the play—not actually in the production but on the page—was the title chapters, and the through line of these whispers written in, of what the dead said to Milla.

What did you feel when you first read Milla’s story? I was really distraught at the end, but not for the reasons you might think. It was more because I couldn’t handle the idea that I couldn’t spend any more time with these characters. It just devastated me that my time with them was over, like with a really amazing novel, you just don’t want your connection with them to end. I thought that was a really great sign. I’d been looking for a first feature for some time, but I knew it had to truly represent my tone, and the kind of artist I wanted to show the world I was. It’s a really difficult thing to do when you’re not a writer yourself.

I felt so distraught when the film ended, and it does just give you the urge to rewatch immediately—it makes you wish it was longer. That’s so great to hear, I’ve had a few people say that they rewatched it more than once and it’s so exciting to me. That is the aim, that you make something that is worth watching again, because you know you’ll get even more out of it the more you watch it—it’s somehow gotten into your bones.

Shannon Murphy with Ben Mendelsohn on the set of ‘Babyteeth’.

One of your actors, Ben Mendelsohn, said Babyteeth is both “delightfully bent” and “beautifully Australian”. What do these terms mean to you? The offset humor is what I’d say he’s talking about, and also the idea to really push through the pain. Australians are really great at saying, “You’ll be alright, chin up.” There’s quite an optimism in our culture. In many ways I really focused on the sound design being really Australian. We shot in February, which is summer, so it was really hot, the cicadas were going crazy, and the birds—our birds sound like people screaming, they’re really intense. It brought such an Australian essence to it.

Could you recommend any Australian filmmakers or specific titles for Letterboxd members? Shirley Barrett’s Love Serenade is amazing. The Last Days of Chez Nous by Gillian Armstrong. And of course Sweetie by Jane Campion is a brilliant piece. I also love Samson and Delilah by Warwick Thornton. [See Shannon’s other Australian film recommendations.]

Moses is such an untraditional love interest, yet so charming. How did you build that character from Rita’s writing, and work with Toby to bring such a physicality to life? It was so important to me with all the characters that you didn’t judge them, despite the behaviors they’re showing because they’re under stress. With Moses it was really important that it wasn’t just about the drug abuse, that it was really about understanding the behavior behind that and why that’s happening. We worked closely with a friend of mine who is a drug and alcohol specialist, and he was always saying, “Don’t talk about the drugs, it’s not what is actually behind this.” We did detail his poly-substance abuse and what he was taking, so that at least Toby and I knew as we were charting the journey.

Toby, in his audition, was just so generous to all the other Millas in the room. Not once was he really thinking about himself, although the stakes were really high and I knew he really wanted the role. I love that, because to me Moses is a really generous person to Milla. I knew I’d have to transform him physically quite a lot, because he’s a very good-looking guy, and we also wanted to break Moses down a lot. With his skin we did that, with his tattoos, and each of his tattoos has a lot of meaning for Moses. Toby and our make-up artist Angela Conti crafted that together. And he’s a very physical performer, very in his body. Who else can pull off shorts like that, quite frankly? I just loved that about him. He’s fearless.

“Who else can pull off shorts like that?”—Toby Wallace with Eliza Scanlan in a scene from ‘Babyteeth’.

Toby gives such an amazing performance. I hadn’t seen him in anything before but a friend said she’d seen him in a Netflix show recently in which he was so despicable, whereas he’s totally transformed here. He’s really my kind of actor because you can throw anything at him and he’s up for it. He’s got an incredible range. And the same with Eliza, they can shapeshift so easily. They’re two very intelligent people, they’re able to get out of their heads and into their bodies quite easily.

I have to ask more about Eliza. How did you create Milla with her, physically, specifically in terms of her clothes, her style—I have the image of the blue wig in my mind. How did aesthetics feed into Milla’s psychology? You know what’s so funny? Everyone calls it the blue wig, but it’s totally green. I don’t know what happened in the [color] grade there, but everyone calls it the blue wig. Even Eliza in an interview the other day said the blue wig, and it was totally green! Anyway, hilarious. Everyone is calling it the blue wig so we can stick with that.

At that age, you are constantly reinventing yourself. Particularly when you meet someone you’re falling in love with, you’re like, who am I going to be to this person? Because this person is also changing who I am and how I see the world. And also she’s completely being a punk, and she’s pushing against her parents, pushing against the world. With her outfits, we spent a lot of time talking about that with my amazing costume designer Amelia Gebler. She’s so bold. We were like, at that age, you just don’t give a shit. You’re trying out different things. Also, the new generation is experimenting with fashion in a way that I think is really impressive. So we wanted to make sure that it felt timeless, and so we did the big pattern clashes for the night out, and also she’s wearing that great unicorn T-shirt, it’s so childlike, but also a bit punk-y when she’s in her home. But then she transitions from the more feminine, girly colors to lilac, which is Moses’ color for the night out. We loved the idea of them both being in the same color for that night.

And then the different wigs, we called the blonde one the Amy Winehouse wig. We would call it “wig-gate” on set, because you always had to make sure you had the right wig on during the transformations. We talked about how initially she has that cancer wig, which is the long blonde one, which is a real cancer wig from a company that makes them specifically for that. Then we moved to Amy Winehouse for the night out, and then we’d go to the blue wig. It always felt like we were doing it at points when she was really shifting emotionally, and playing different versions of herself in many ways.

What was the first film that made you want to be a filmmaker? Is it okay if it’s not a film? I was quite obsessed with Jim Henson’s television series The Storyteller. It was such a dark fable that I watched at such a young age. I remember John Hurt being the narrator, I would just get so sucked into these stories. Even still today I can remember so many of them so vividly. They were really creative. Jim Henson was someone who was so out of the box, really pushing our imagination in ways that have stayed with so many of us.

Related content

Shannon Murphy’s Favorite Australian Films

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Movie Maestro’s Teenage Wasteland: A Comprehensive List of Coming-of-Age Films

Dana Danger’s Directed by Women list

[sariastrategos]

“People are staring” Lambert muttered, dropping his shoulders and curling in on himself. He was gently hoisted up by the arm he had linked with Jaskier.

“Of course they are darling, we’re gorgeous.” He replied, staring straight ahead, apparently paying no mind to the turning heads.

“Jaskier-“

“Lambert.”

This was a terrible idea. The singular worst idea he’d ever had.

“They’re not staring because we look good, Jaskier”

“Whatever gives you that impression?”

“Gee, I dunno, could be the confused fucking looks they’re throwing at us. Or maybe the muttering right after? How about the snickers?” He replied darkly, hunching back in on himself at the disgusted looks an older couple had openly plastered on their faces “what the fuck are you looking at you wrinkly old farts? Never seen a man in a fucking dress before? Get the fuck outta here!” He snarled.

Jaskier places a hand on his upper arm and hauled him back on course. “Calm down, dear.”

Easy for him to say. Walking without a care in the world despite his minty green, flouncy dress, coral kitten heels and matching purse. Man was wearing a choker and pink lip gloss for fucks sake.

He’d been feeling more confident lately, mostly thanks to Jaskier and his brothers’ support. They never flinched when he came out all done up after three hours of Jaskier’s meticulous attention. Didn’t blink when he wore leggings and a loose top or lounged around in skirt.

Well, besides telling him to close his damn legs, they didn’t need to see his balls airing out.

But yeah, aside from that the only comment they made was to tell him he looked nice, the colour suited him, his legs looked great in that outfit, etc. Nothing but supportive, even if they teased him. If anything the teasing helped, made everything feel normal. So yeah, he’d been feeling confident. Comfortable in his own skin, even.

He mentioned to Jaskier as he practiced his makeup that he kind of felt good enough to maybe leave the house. In his makeup. And a dress. Maybe some cute heels.

Jaskier had leapt on the idea. Gushed about how pretty they’d look, walking down the street in the spring sunshine. He wasn’t shy about anything, he and Geralt went out all the time with him dressed up. Even if he was just wearing makeup he didn’t care and neither had Geralt.

So they’d decided on a small outing. Nothing big, no malls or clubs or anything, just...out for ice cream and maybe a stroll through the park. Nothing too far from the house.

Jaskier’s enthusiasm had certainly been a deciding factor in this little outing but he wasn’t feeling as confident now. He knew he wasn’t getting as many looks as he thought, not even a quarter of the people on the street spared them a glance but he felt every. Single. One.

It was the last straw when a group of fucking frat fucks openly stared and laughed.

“I can’t do this. Let’s go back, those little shits are actually laughing in our faces.”

“Do you know them?” Jaskier asked, looking at him quizzically, completely ignoring the bastards with a death wish on the bench they were passing.

“No, the fuck? Should I know them?”

“No.” Jaskier said simply, turning and looking straight ahead again, chin tipped back and head held high “they’re not worth knowing.” He continued, tugged their linked arms to get his feet moving again when he tried to stop and turn around. “And if they aren’t worth knowing, their opinions aren’t worth your consideration.”

He let himself be tugged along as he considered this thought. Compelling argument but it didn’t stop the curl of shame and fear that twisted his guts when one of them wolf whistled and the others laughed.

The growls he heard rumble behind him startled him. He looked behind, catching Jaskier’s grin on the way, to see both Geralt and Eskel glaring daggers at the boys. Every line of their posture was menacing, from the snarls on their faces to the wide set of their feet. The boys on the bench, so brave a moment ago when they were jeering, fell silent and stared, wide eyed, at the two enormous men.

“It is helpful to have twin mountains of muscle ready to tear out throats with their teeth walking behind you.” Jaskier said, throwing a fond look and sly grin behind them. “I’ve thought several times that they should rent themselves out as escorts for this very purpose.”

They watched as Eskel and Geralt took two menacing steps in the boys’ direction and they went tripping over each other to bolt the other way. It was satisfying to see them run, comforting to know he had their support but also depressing that he’d not been the one to scare them off himself.

He suddenly felt ridiculous, all trussed up in a purple wrap dress, meticulously applied makeup and a wig Jaskier had picked up somewhere. Jaskier had offered him some contrasting yellow heels but they were a little too bright for his confidence level and he’d settled on a black pair instead.

He looked alright, his silhouette was a fuckin mess without the proper padding or a clincher but he thought he looked at least a little nice before he left. His makeup was fucking flawless.

He’d shaved off his goatee for this.

But all it took was some awkward looks and mocking from some little shits who’d barely come out of puberty and every ounce of his good mood had been fucking shattered. Everywhere. He was walking on the debris of his budding comfort with his super cute shoes. He could see the purple nail polish from his pedi through the peep toes of his heels as he crunched down on the remains of his hope.

He hadn’t realized he was spiralling until the arm linked with his tugged him forward and another snaked around his shoulders. Both gave him a light squeeze and he blinked to see the arm around him belonged to Eskel who was giving him a smile.

“Fuck ‘em, Lam, their shit ain’t worth yours.” He gave him another squeeze “you look great, they just don’t know how to handle how confused you made their sexuality.”

He snorted and let himself stand up a little straighter, marveling at the extra inch of height he now had on his older brother. “Yeah, I’m sure they’ll be jacking themselves to thoughts of me tonight”

“I will be” Jaskier commented mildly from his other side, wrapping his free arm around Geralt’s, who was still glaring after the boys. “You’ve got such lovely legs, dear heart, I wish you’d show them off more.”

“Yeah I’ll just throw out all my jeans and fill my drawers with Daisy Dukes and leggings for you.” He rolled his eyes and let himself keep walking, trying to ignore the people around them. They really weren’t that bad, hardly anyone looked their way but it felt like everyone was looking at him. He couldn’t pull this off as well as Jask with his big, bright eyes, long lashes and soft features.

“Don’t tease, darling, it’s cruel” he replied and planted a smooch on his cheek. “Before you fuss, your makeup is fine.” He was grinning from ear to ear, walking like a natural in those shoes, with a practiced sashay to his hips that did wonders to catch the eye. It sure kept catching Geralt’s eye as his skirts swished and his hip bumped his regularly. There was a reason he’d chosen to walk behind them at the start of this after all.

“How do you do it?” He asked “how do you walk like that?”

With a confused look Jaskier watched him for a moment “the same way you do darling, lots of practice and sore feet-“

“No I mean how do you walk like you don’t give a fuck? You don’t feel all the eyes burning into you?”

Jaskier paused and considered his answer “Well that’s just it darling, I don’t give a fuck.” He smiled brightly “their opinions don’t mean a damn thing to me, chances are I probably won’t see any of these people again and if I do we won’t remember each other.” He hugged his arm to him tightly “and what’s more is it’s my life, not theirs. This makes me feel happy and fulfilled and their opinions don’t, so which matters more?”

That took some time to process. They continued to walk and Lambert dimly recognized the warmth of the sun, the conversation flowing around him, the weight of his brother’s arm, as all secondary to his thoughts as he took Jaskier’s words in. He was right, the logic was sound, but it didn’t stop him from curling in on himself whenever he heard people muttering as they passed by. For fuck’s sake they probably weren’t even talking about him but it felt like they were.

He had to restrain himself from lashing out twice before Eskel tightened his arm around him again and leaned over to whisper in his ear. “Remember, confidence is key, little sister”

He almost got whiplash with how fast he snapped his head around to look at him. He’d never called him that before, no matter how much makeup or what skirt he was wearing. His eyes must have been saucers but Eskel just gave him a bolstering grin, the same look he’d give him when he was practicing footwork or frustrated with a brew that wouldn’t turn out. It was comfortingly familiar. “back straight, head up, no more of this self-conscious hunching, it doesn’t suit you”

“It really doesn’t” Geralt chimed in “The Lambert we know is proud, loud and obnoxious. Let that Lambert back out.”

It took a little bit, but eventually he straightened his spine, Vesemir would have killed him to see him slouching like that. A coaxing smile from Jaskier and he tilted his chin up a little more.

“That’s better.” Eskel grinned “the rest of the world can go fuck itself, show them what a fierce bitch you are.”

Lambert gave him a cocky grin that he was actually starting to feel “I am a fierce bitch. Fuck ‘em I am, I’ll claw their fucking eyes out if they don’t like it.”

“That’s the spirit darling! With the right nails, anything is possible!” Jaskier, always a font of support and violence.

“Fuck, thanks Eskel, now they’re fucking feral and it’s your fault” Geralt looked up at the sky like he was praying for strength. Jaskier and Lambert could feed off each other’s destructive energy for hours.

“You’re just jealous you’re nails can’t cut throats”

Jaskier and Lambert ignored them, discussing the merits and drawbacks of stiletto nails.

He still had a long way to go before he’d leave the house in makeup without at least one of them, but he felt good for today.

[ufonaut]

ALAN SCOTT :/

How I feel about this character: my ranking of the green lanterns used to be the following:

KILOWOG

hal

hal again but like, with a wig

hal but homeless

hal but parallax

alan scott

guy if he’s a stripper like almost in sleepers

 kyle, john, simon, jess (most boring people in existence)

BUT NOW!!!!!!!!!!!! ALAN IS ABSOLUTELY #1 ALONG WITH HAL. HE’S ACTUALLY STEADILY GROWING TO BE ONE OF MY ALL TIME FAV DC CHARACTERS GENERALLY. UNTHINKABLE. i’m a couple of issues away from finishing his solo run and i’ve grown very, impossibly fond of his shenanigans and every panel of him being, as jay puts it, fussy. the fact that alan’s gay is also obviously extremely important to me and how he’s dealt with that having lived through the forties/fifties/etc is one thing i want to explore endlessly

All the people I ship romantically with this character: honestly no one in particular? it must be said that he definitely had a very short-lived crush on doiby in his (singular) solo run and he almost definitely thought hal was his boyfriend-from-the-future in sleepers book 3 (& was relieved to find out thats not the case) but most of all, i just want him to be happy with any equally gay old man he might meet

My non-romantic OTP for this character: ALSO no one really! i like how he & bruce make a great team on occasion while still being minutes away from murdering each other though

My unpopular opinion about this character: i’m assuming this isn’t that unpopular but i think golden age/present day alan should be treated as canon gay outside of any new 52 stuff. one other possibly unpopular opinion: hes much more goofy than hes given credit for (and its a good thing!)

One thing I wish would happen / had happened with this character in canon: again, more of an exploration of the gay thing and basically everything you & i came up with for the book that shall never be but outside of that, the 1941 offers SO many delightful “superhero in mundane situations” (best trope) instances that im like. fully content otherwise

[secretgamergirl]

RPG Campaign Setting Thoughts - The Planes

Sometimes you just get kinda burnt out writing stuff for other people’s settings and have to write stuff about your own. Expect a series of these, maybe, my track record for long-form stuff on this blog sucks. Today though, here’s some notes on just the fundamental underpinnings of the setting. Let me know what you think here, because eventually if I get enough of this I might like, kickstart a book on it (with, you know, good art) and/or write adventure paths or something.

The world as we know it, the sun, all the stars in the sky, and everything between them comprise what some refer to as the Prime Material Plane, Creation, or The Great Canvas, onto which Brin [bad placeholder name there] paints our world and some speculate many others, creating the land, the sky, and all that ever lived.

Much like a mortal painter, Brin holds a Great Palette [ethereal plane?], which holds the raw stuff of creation - the elements. Fire, earth, air and water, in their purest forms. [Probably also Positive/Negative energy, para/quasi-elemental planes too] Were one to travel to the Great Palette through magic, they would not experience these as blobs of pigment on a board, but each as their own reality, as infinitely vast as the Great Palette, but lacking its variety, each comprised in its way only of a single element, and magical beings born thereof. As these elemental planes are closer to Brin, they are sometimes known as the Inner Planes.

Beyond the Great Canvas, and indeed, beyond the reach of Brin entirely are the Outer Planes, or the Great Beyond. Home to the other deities, and the destination of souls after death. [And that’s all I’m really inclined to say here because I don’t particularly have any tweaks for the outer planes beyond avoiding the copyrighted bits, but if I do a book, yeah.]

While the Great Canvas is a singular whole, always representing the entirety of our physical reality as it presently stands, Brin’s work is never-ending, their hand always at work, repainting some corner of the canvas, touching up details, or painting over vast swaths in a sudden fit of inspiration. Our own world is a small enough part of the whole that such drastic revisions are rare, and thought by many to be a portion of the canvas Brin particularly favors, but over millennia, our world has been vastly revised several times, and in more recent years, the strokes of Brin’s brush have made alterations to several individual regions. [So there’s weird unexplored places near major population centers!]

When Brin’s brush repaints the world in this manner, what once existed is never truly lost. Much as one with a careful hand can chip away the paint on a heavily revised canvas to reveal an earlier state, so too is the Prime Material plane comprised in truth of many layers, and in rare places, cracks of sorts allow safe passage beyond our present layer and one that lies beneath. Portals, in a sense, to cities, countries, perhaps even entire worlds Brin felt the need to replace, some still home to creatures and civilizations at odds with the world as we now know it. [This is the Big Blank Check of the setting. With care, ‘cracks in the paint’ like this allow for mind-blowingly huge underworlds, Underdark/Hollow World style, weird distorted early sketches for the world like Pathfinder’s First World and Shadow Plane, or a nice compromise if there’s some particular aspect of a different campaign setting you just can’t bring yourself to leave out of a new campaign and want to grandfather in without messing with the rest of the world. And yes, this whole conceit comes with the very meta implication that every Main Campaign World for a major fantasy RPG are layered on top of each other like this.]

[A couple notes on races here too, because they’re tied in to the above and I don’t know if I’m up for dedicating a whole update just to them. My first instinct was to just not have races. I’ve never really been a fan. They encourage power gaming for stats, a whole lot of actual racism, flat simplistic mono-cultures, screwy language rules, and it never makes sense that everyone’s living in the same cities in the same population ratios. BUT I’m really striving for backwards compatibility, so...

Halflings and Giants exist because Brin isn’t always especially consistent with scale and perspective. There’s just parts of the world where people were created really big or really small next to common frames of reference, like in medieval paintings where a person is somehow the same height as an entire tree and also a dog or whatever.

Half-Elves and Half-Orcs are their own distinct races. A human and an elf can’t have a kid together, nor a human and an orc. They came about because Brin was revising the world, and some people were in living along the edges of where new races, which ended up as somewhat blend areas so the new additions wouldn’t cause too much contrast. This is also why they’re fairly rare.

No particular plans for doing anything weird with dwarves and gnomes yet. Dwarves might have dug their way up from an older layer? I like Pathfinder’s take on gnomes as First World immigrants but that’s probably infringe-y. Maybe bring pointy hats back?

Also? Orcs are white people. Like, not literally, still going to be green (with maybe lighter, near white shades in the mix too). Culturally. Bunch of monotheistic, patriarchal, self-aggrandizing, colonizing brutal scumbags, prone to wearing powdered wigs and impractical clothes with ruffles and buckles everywhere, as a major villain for the setting as a whole. Too many works of fiction, which is to say all of them, have depicted orcs as “primitive evil savages” and then just blatantly depicted them as Mongolians/black people/Native Americans/whatever group they have unfortunate subconscious issues with, so, screw all that, time to do them as the actual evil marauding empires trying to conquer and enslave the whole world for a change. Deal with it.]

BRIN - TN Deity

Home- Beyond the Planes (with command over the Inner Planes and Prime Material)

Domains - Air, Earth, Fire, Water, Weather

Common Worshipers: Artists, Crafters, Explorers, the Dissatisfied

Goals: Perfecting the world, in an artistic sense.

Direct Interventions: Brin is capable of sweeping drastic changes to the Prime Material Plane or any of the Inner Planes, but is completely unconcerned with most mortal and even divine concerns. They are only likely to intervene directly in events causing drastic changes to the Prime Material Plane outside of their vision for it, and tend to do so with sweeping changes to the fabric of reality.

Blind Spots: Brin never intervenes with, nor even observes anything in the outer planes, and will not grant spells to worshipers who travel there.

[Brin is kind of a terrible pick for a deity to worship, honestly. Bit on the alien side, and if you really get their attention, it’ll be more likely that your home town is now a beach than anything helpful to your situation.]

[tohearandbeheard]

The Kid-napping of Princess Purplelocks

Uproarious, unkempt warriors went dashing down to gather on the green. Milky of mustache and gooey-gripped from sticky snack-time terminated, each eagerly wielded a weapon. Gravely gripped in every hand hung a terrible tool for fighting, procured personally from bedroom barracks. Swordsman Samuel brandished a broomhandle like Lancelot. Phineas the Fellhand could clobber whichever wimp dared to duel him and his powerful plunger. 

King Kevin, Reigning Regent in all the Camelot Cul-de-Sac, kept a keen sleek Sword of Nerf nestled, safely scabbarded. Each envied his hefty foam falchion. His whole courtly kingship began only because backyards are often small, save the luxurious lawn of King Kevin. Any other crown-claims were quashed--King Kevin had hastily declared a dynasty. Kevin’s kin, the infant intended to take the sovereign seat, was one Princess Purplelocks, who would sometimes sit in baby bouncer to watch the warfare. Barely a babe, the cunning King had hidden her hairless, noggin ‘neath a winsome wig of pleasant purple. Surely, she looked like quite the queen, the splendid sister of King Kevin. 

The broad brood of savage soldiers brawled beneath the generous gaze of the reigning regent. Like little Vikings Valhalla-bound by honor, only the weakest would flee a fight. Listener, lest you use much mental space speculating on political pragmatics, suffice to say the aim of all was wage battle, before the coven-council of Many Mothers screamed surrender, for daily dead and living alike. 

Though there was one fate far more mortifying than that of capitulation in combat. Amidst all those thrifty makeshift melee weapons was one sickening stick. The baneful branch, if even one would think it thick enough to title that thus, was worst amongst all backyard bludgeoners. Ingrown inside the shameful shillelagh, welded in wood, was one singular sentiment: “He who this thorny wood wields is proved a peasant, and worst warrior.” The whole hoard of hosts hated that thistly wood whacker. It sat still like a lump, casky carcasse. 

King Kevin, mostly magnanimous, exerted the occasional kindless cruelty. At battle’s beginning, King Kevin forced the fealty of his host, and compelled a kid to take the twig. During the day’s afternoon assault, an unlucky urchin would wield the branch in battle, a peasant before barons. Surely the sap would be pummeled by plungers and battered by broomhandles, an inferior instrument held hapless.

Once, William the Juice-Jouster won the woeful wood-piece. Wily William the Juice-Jouster stayed silent, but beneath a surly scowl he plotted a plan. While Will was whacked and attacked by slipshod swords, he hatched a whole heist--to nab the Nerf and destroy the dynasty. So soon, in the hour after the Many Mothers called it quits, Wily William snuck silently past the portcullis of Castle Kevin. The guardian grandparents slept soundly, the mighty matriarch of Kevin cooked, and Wily William snuck silently to the top tower where one Princess Purplelocks snoozed sweetly. The infant heir--that damsel--dozed on, unaware. Without a wig, she seemed less lofty and more mundane. Carefully in cradling arms, our Wily William lifted the lass from fuzzy crib and carried her hence. Kidnapped as the kid napped, the infiltrator Wily William intended the infant Princess Purplelocks to be a baby bargaining chip or regal ransom, with which a royal revolution could occur. William wouldn’t ever again lift the loathsome lumber. 

Well, Will’s contrivance caused a real ruckus. Princess Purplelocks was at once brought back to Castle Kevin, under the umbridge of a mirthless mother. Wily William was surely scolded. Yet, after the Princess pilfering, young King Kevin wasn’t once called King, ever again.

[papermoonloveslucy]

LUCY GIVES EDDIE ALBERT THE OLD SONG AND DANCE

S6;E6 ~ October 15, 1973

Directed by Coby Ruskin ~ Written by Bob Carroll Jr. and Madelyn Davis

Synopsis

When producing a charity show, Lucy asks Eddie Albert to star in it.  At the same time, a woman meeting Lucy’s description has been stalking Albert.  

Regular Cast

Lucille Ball (Lucy Carter), Gale Gordon (Harrison Otis Carter)

Lucie Arnaz (Kim Carter) does not appear in this episode, nor does she receive credit in the opening titles. Despite her absence, the final credits do state “Lucie Arnaz Wardrobe by Alroe.”

Guest Cast

Eddie Albert (Himself) began his TV career years before electronic television was introduced to the public. In June of 1936 Eddie appeared in RCA’s first private live performance for their radio licensees in New York City, a very early experimental television system. He first worked with Lucille Ball in the 1950 movie The Fuller Brush Girl. Today he is perhaps best known for playing lawyer turned farmer Oliver Douglas on CBS’s “Green Acres” (1965-71). He was nominated for two Oscars as Supporting Actor, in 1954 for Roman Holiday and 1972 for The Heartbreak Kid. He died in 2005 at age 99.  

Mary Jane Croft (Mary Jane Lewis, left) played Betty Ramsey during season six of “I Love Lucy. ” She also played Cynthia Harcourt in “Lucy is Envious” (ILL S3;E23) and Evelyn Bigsby in “Return Home from Europe” (ILL S5;E26). She played Audrey Simmons on “The Lucy Show” but when Lucy Carmichael moved to California, she played Mary Jane Lewis, the actor’s married name and the same one she uses on all 31 of her episodes of “Here’s Lucy. Her final acting credit was playing Midge Bowser on “Lucy Calls the President” (1977). She died in 1999 at the age of 83. 

Vanda Barra (Vanda Barra, right) makes one of over two dozen appearances on “Here’s Lucy” as well as appearing in Ball’s two 1975 TV movies “Lucy Gets Lucky” and “Three for Two”. She was seen in half a dozen episodes of “The Lucy Show.” Barra was Lucille Ball’s cousin-in-law by marriage to Sid Gould.

Doris Singleton (Patty) created the role of Caroline Appleby on “I Love Lucy,” although she was known as Lillian Appleby in the first of her ten appearances. She made two appearances on “The Lucy Show.” This is the second of her four appearances on “Here’s Lucy.”  She was originally intended to be a series regular but was written out after the first episode.

The character’s name is not used in the dialogue but is listed in the final credits.

Jerry Hausner (Jimmy) was featured as Jerry, Ricky’s agent in the pilot and first three seasons of “I Love Lucy.”  He left the show after a disagreement with Desi Arnaz. He returned to work with Lucille Ball in “Lucy is a Soda Jerk” (TLS S1;E23), shortly after Desi Arnaz resigned as Executive Producer and President of Desilu.  This is is his only “Here’s Lucy” appearance and his last time on screen with Lucille Ball.  He was seen in three episodes of “Green Acres” with Eddie Albert.

“Green Acres” is mentioned in the dialogue of the episode. Eddie Albert’s co-star on “Green Acres,” Eva Gabor, guest-starred in two episodes of “Here’s Lucy.” Many other “Lucy” actors appeared in Hooterville.  Among them, Barbara Pepper (30 episodes), Eleanor Audley (19 episodes), Robert Foulk (16 episodes), Jonathan Hole (7 episodes), Shirley Mitchell (4 episodes), Parley Baer (4 episodes), Jerry Hausner (3 episodes), Jesse White (2 episodes), John J. Fox (2 episodes), Roy Roberts (2 episodes), Maurice Marsac, Lou Krugman, Bob Jellison, Norman Leavitt, Romo Vincent, Elvia Allman, Gail Bonney, Ray Kellogg, Irwin Charone, Bernie Kopell, Charles Lane, Alan Hale Jr., Robert Carson, Jerome Cowan, William Lanteau, Paul Bradley, Leoda Richards, Hans Moebus, and Rich Little.  

An office scene between Lucy and Harry was originally written for “Lucy, the Peacemaker” (S5;E3) but deleted for time.  It was re-staged for this episode.  

Lucille begins to wear longer wigs again after having worn shorter styles earlier in the season.

Lucy, Mary Jane, and Vanda are having a lunch meeting to plan their annual “Girl Friday Follies,” a show that raises money to send underprivileged kids to camp. Taking Lucy’s suggestion to find a “big name”, Mary Jane suggests Engelbert Humperdinck – the ‘biggest’ name she’s ever heard.  The English singing sensation was previously mentioned on “Lucy and Liberace” (S2;E16) and “Lucy and Ann-Margret” (S2;E20) where Lucy mispronounced his name as 'Pumpernickel’ and 'Dumperhink.’

Looking at his desk, littered with food items from the girls’ lunch, Harry laments that he “missed the Iowa State Picnic.”  The Iowa State Picnic is an annual event that started in 1900 and was held in Long Beach, California, which was nicknamed “Iowa by the Sea.” They were attended by Iowans who had transplanted to the area in order to share their common roots. With attendance dwindling, in 2014 the picnic moved from Long Beach to San Pedro where the USS Iowa is docked.   

To find a star, Lucy looks at Joyce Haber’s column in the newspaper. Joyce Haber was the gossip columnist of the Los Angeles Times. She made an appearance (above) as a member of the Hollywood Press when “Lucy Meets the Burtons” (S3;E1) in 1970.  

Haber’s column mentions that Frank Sinatra is coming out of retirement.  In 1970, the singer went into a self-imposed retirement that lasted until 1973 with the release of the album “Ol’ Blue Eyes is Back.”  Sinatra was first mentioned on “I Love Lucy” in 1955 and his named has been dropped on both “The Lucy Show” and “Here’s Lucy.” Sinatra inadvertently appeared on “I Love Lucy” when a clip of him in the film Guys and Dolls was inserted into the MGM Executives Show in “Lucy and the Dummy” (ILL S5;E3) when it was running short.  The clip has since been removed and has never been seen in the context of the episode after its initial broadcast.

Lucy says she saw Eddie Albert in The Music Man. In 1959, Albert replaced Robert Preston in the  Broadway production of The Music Man. Coincidentally, the show’s author Meredith Willson was from Iowa, where the musical is set, and attended the 1959 Iowa State Picnic to lead the Long Beach Band playing the show’s rousing anthem “76 Trombones.”

When a preoccupied Lucy is idle at her desk, she tells Harry she’s worried about Eddie Albert. Harry tells her to get busy and let Margo worry about Eddie Albert. Margo Albert was a Mexican-American actress born as María Marguerita Guadalupe Teresa Estela Bolado Castilla y O'Donnell – so she simply went by the singular moniker Margo. Coincidentally, he was related by marriage to band leader Xavier Cugat, as niece of his first marriage to Carmen Castillo. Cugat was a mentor of Desi Arnaz’s and often mentioned as a rival of Ricky Ricardo. Margo appeared in a 1958 installment of “The Westinghouse-Desilu Playhouse” with Eddie Albert which was hosted by Desi Arnaz. The following year, she was seen in another installment with Arnaz as a co-star.  

Margo’s black and white photo is behind the sofa of Albert’s living room. Next to it is a photo of Albert’s son, Edward Laurence Heimberger (aka Eddie Albert Jr.), age 23.  In 1972, he was launched to fame from his portrayal of blind Don Baker in Butterflies are Free, for which he won a Golden Globe. He died of Alzheimer’s Disease in 2006, one year after his father’s passing.

When Lucy unexpectedly arrives on Eddie Albert’s doorstep he believes her to be his stalker, so Patty is sent to phone for the police. She rushes from the room saying “I feel like I’m on 'Mannix’!”  “Mannix” (1967-75) was a Desilu-produced TV show that was saved from cancellation after its first season by Lucille Ball. “Here’s Lucy” hosted a cross-over episode with “Mannix” in 1971 that also featured Mary Jane Croft and Gale Gordon. It, too, was written and directed by Ruskin, Davis, and Carroll.  

Trying to convince Eddie to change his conflict date and do the show, Lucy breaks into “There’s a Long, Long Trail” and then Albert joins in, harmonizing. At the end of the scene Harry, Mary Jane, and Vanda all join in.  The song was written by Stoddard King and Alonzo Elliott in 1913. In an episode of “The Lucy Show,” Lucy Carmichael and Viv sing the first two lines of the chorus in a failed attempt to entertain their kids after their TV set breaks down. The song’s title may have also influenced the title of the Lucille Ball / Desi Arnaz film The Long, Long Trailer (1953). 

“The Girl Friday Follies”

Mary Jane: “Nostalgia’s so old fashioned.”

The Girl Friday Follies opens with Mary Jane and Vanda taking their bows as the team of “Crime and Punishment”.  We never see what the act consists of, but it is likely not connected to Fyodor Dostoyevsky’s 1866 novel of the same name.  

Eddie Albert: “To know Harry is to love him!” Lucy: “I don’t think we’re talking about the same Harry.”

For the finale, Lucy and Eddie Albert perform “Makin’ Whoopee” written by Gus Kahn and Walter Donaldson.  The song was first popularized by Eddie Cantor in the 1928 musical Whoopee!  For the first time since her skiing accident, Lucy dances on television.

In her DVD introduction of the episode, Shirley Mitchell calls the show “old home week.” 

Aside from Lucy’s reunion with Eddie Albert from The Fuller Brush Girl, she also shares the sound stage with three members of the cast of “I Love Lucy”… 

Shirley Mitchell (Carolyn Appleby)… 

Mary Jane Croft (Betty Ramsey)… 

and Jerry Hausner (Jerry the Agent).  

The episode is written by the “I Love Lucy” scribes Madelyn (Pugh) Davis and Bob Carroll Jr.

Lucy says she saw Eddie Albert’s house on a tour of the movie stars homes. Mary Jane asks Lucy if that was the tour where she sneaked into Rock Hudson’s backyard to steal an orange. This is a variation on when Lucy Ricardo took a tour of the movie stars homes and sneaked over Richard Widmark’s wall to steal a grapefruit in “The Tour” (ILL S4;E30). 

Rock Hudson played himself on an episode titled “In Palm Springs” (ILL S4;E26). Rock Hudson is mentioned again later, when Patty reveals that the same woman who has been stalking Eddie Albert has also been bothering Rock Hudson.

Vanda asks if it is the same tour where she saw Dean Martin in his bathrobe dumping empty bottles in the trash?  Although this even never happened on screen, Lucy Carmichael did date Dean Martin on “The Lucy Show.”  

Where the Floor Ends!  In the office, the camera pulls back for a wide shot that exposes where the wall-to-wall carpet ends and the cement stage floor begins. 

“Lucy Gives Eddie Albert the Old Song and Dance” rates 3 Paper Hearts out of 5

This episode is enjoyable for “I Love Lucy” (or Eddie Albert) fans. It is good to see so many folks from Lucille Ball’s past in one episode!    

[scotianostra]

On January 10th 1750 Thomas, Lord Erskine was born.

The youngest son in a noble Scottish family, Thomas Erskine excelled at law and gained renown as one of the most eloquent orators of his day. He briefly served as an MP, but it is his career at the bar he most noted for.

Born in Edinburgh's Old Town, Erskine was the third son of the tenth earl of Buchan. Despite their grand title, the Erskines lived on limited means; rather than an ancestral home, they lived in a flat at the head of South Grays Close on the High Street, on the Royalk Mile.

His defence of Thomas Paine, accused of high treason for his work, The Rights of Man, cost him his position as Attorney General to the Prince of Wales. Later, Erskine totally alienated George IV by defending Queen Caroline against the king's attempt to deprive her of her rights and title.

Rather go into all the boring education, career stuff I will focus more on the man, the character, for I think Lord Erskine was a bit of a character, he had a favourite dog with him at all his consultations in Chambers a favourite a large Newfoundland dog called "Toss". He taught it to sit upon a chair in chambers with his paws placed before him on the table. Erskine would put an open book before him, a wig upon his head and one of his advocate's bands around his neck. What his clients thought of this exhibition we do not know, but it is unlikely that they would have forsaken him for another counsel.

He was obviously an animal lover he another dod that had rescued from some boys in the street when they were about to kill it. Later, on March 2, 1811, he sent a bitch to a fellow peer [Lord] with a note to say that, "her name is Lucky and may all good luck attend your Lordship".

He also had a pet goose which followed him about in his grounds, a macaw and a great many other dumb friends. He even had two special leeches which he believed had saved his life when he was ill and which he called his "bottle conjurors". These he kept in a glass and, he said, he gave them fresh water every day and had formed a friendship with them. He would often argue the likely result of a case on how they swam or crawled.

Erskine said he was sure they both knew him and were grateful to him. They were called "Home" and "Cline" after two celebrated surgeons with quite different dispositions. He amassed the company at a party given at his villa in Hampstead, near "The Spaniard's Inn", by talking about his regard for animals and, in particular, those to whom he was attached. He then produced the leeches in their glass which he placed upon the table. It was impossible, however, wrote Samuel Romilly who was present, "without the vivacity, the tones, the details, and the gestures of Lord Erskine, to give an adequate idea of this singular scene".

He introduced into the Lords a Bill for the prevention of malicious and wanton cruelty to animals, saying that it was a subject very near to his heart. Disgusting outrages, which he said "were too painful to describe, were being perpetrated upon animals whilst the law did nothing. This was because animals were considered only as property. They were entirely without protection from cruelty and they had no rights. Yet man's dominion over them was not given by God for their torture but as a moral trust.

Nature had provided the same organs and feelings for enjoyment and happiness to animals as to man -- seeing, hearing, feeling, thinking, the sensations of pain and pleasure, love, anger and sensibility to kindness. Such creatures might have been created for man's use but not for his abuse. Towards them, as in all other things, men's duties and interests were inseparable. Extending humanity to animals would have a most powerful effect on men's moral sense and upon their feelings and sympathies for each other."

When the speech was published as a pamphlet, its editor suggested in the Preface that it should be introduced to families and schools and deserved to be circulated "among the lower classes of society by the clergy, and by all moral and pious persons'.

When the Bill was in its Committee stage, Erskine pointed out that during his 30 years of Parliamentary life he had never before proposed any alteration in the law. He still had no wish, he said, to link a statute with his name; he had a better motive. If the Bill were enacted, it would not only be an honour to the country but would mark an era in the history of the world. In the event, the House of Commons proved not to be ready for animal rights and the Bill was defeated but eventually went through in 1809.

Lastly and briefly, perhaps our Lord Erskine was also a wee bit of a romantic, he survived his first wife, Frances, she passed away in 1805 after 35 years of marriage, on October 12, 1818 he married Sarah Buck in Gretna Green, he was 20 years her senior.

It is said he never missed a day in court and led a very healthy life but in 1823 Erskine set out by sea on a visit to Scotland with one of his sons, hoping to see his brother the Earl of Buchan. But he became ill with a chest infection on the journey and was put ashore at Scarborough. He managed to travel to the home of his brother Henry's widow in Almondell in West Lothian, where they were joined by the earl. He died at Almondell on 17 November 1823 and was buried in the family burial-place at Uphall in what was then Linlithgowshire.